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PLEASANT    MEMORIES 


WESJBIF^ 


1836. 


PLEASANT  MEMORIES 


OF 


PLEASANT    LANDS 


BY 


L.  H.  SIGOTJBNEY. 


"  In  a  strange  land, 

Kind  things,  however  trivial,  reach  the  heart, 
\nd  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home, 
And  in  their  place,  grafting  Goodwill  toAU^  §  ^ 


THIRD     EDITION 


BOSTON  AND  CAMBRIDGE: 
JAMES    MUNKOE    AND    COMPANY. 

M  DCCC  LVI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1356,  by 

JAMES  MUXBOE  AND  COMPANY, 
i"  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Masachumt, 


RIVERSIDE.   CAMBRIDGE  : 
PRINTED   BY   H.   O.    HOUGHTOX  AND   COMPANY 


TO   THE 

HON.  S.  G.  GOODRICH, 

WHOSE   PEN   HAS   MADE     HIM     KNOWN    IN    MANY    LANDS, 

THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED, 
AS   A   PLEASANT   MEMORY   OF    EARLY   FRIENDSHIP, 

BY     THE     AUTHOR. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTICE. 


A  NEW  edition  of  "Pleasant  Memories  of 
Pleasant  Lands"  having  been  called  for,  its 
Publishers  think  proper  to  say,  that  it  has  had 
not  only  the  careful  revision  of  the  Author,  but 
numerous  additions  from  her  Journal,  which 
they  think  will  not  fail  to  increase  its  interest 
with  the  public,  by  whom  it  was  received  with 
such  marked  favor  at  its  first  appearance. 

BOSTON,  December,  20,  1855. 


PREFACE. 


cas(Ie,  pa.ace  and  cathedra.,  he  doubs  met 
o«.,r  travels,  with  tlleir  no(e.books;  ^  « 

-w  and  described,  they  also  may  see  and   describe 
perchance  with  a  moreg]ow,ngpenoi]> 

'  the  P^pect  of  finding  un. 

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'  W'U  ^  Pr°fi(able  both  to  —  «  and  to  record  i 
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e-  retain  ,he  power  of  promo(ing 


the  Botes  of  a  Journal 


PREFACE. 
Xll 

regularly   kept,    during    a   tour   which   occupied   the 


— 


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•     ,1  i™  that  '     He  who  would  work 
«  how  much  is  gained  by  that  . 

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owes  not  only  a  great  debt  of 


to 


PREFACE. 


xni 


server,  but  a  new  service  of  charity  to  those  whom  He 
has  made.  It  would  seem  that  an  obligation  was  laid 
on  him  not  to  use  the  knowledge  thus  acquired  to  em 
barrass  and  embroil  God's  creatures,  but  to  throw  a> 
filament  of  love,  though  it  were  only  as  a  spider's  web, 
to  strengthen  the  amity  of  the  nations. 

And  now,  dear  reader,  if  any  such  there  be,  who 
shall  have  patiently  plodded  through  these  my  pages, 
thou  art,  for  this  very  kindness,  as  a  brother  or  sister 
unto  me.  And  as  we  have  here  communed  together  of 
pleasant  things,  without  perchance  having  seen  each 
other's  faces  in  the  flesh,  may  we  be  so  blessed  as  to 
dwell  together  in  that  country  where  no  stranger  sor- 
roweth,  where  no  wanderer  goeth  forth  from  his  home 
with  tears,  and  "  where  there  is  no  more  sea." 

L.  H.  S. 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE   .          .  Pape 

THE   FIRST  THREE  DAYS  AT  SEA 

THE  VISITANT 

DIVINE  WORSHIP  ON  THE  DEEP    . 

THE   GERANIUM  PLANT     .  .  .  '        J 

APPROACH  TO  ENGLAND         . 

LIVERPOOL 

CHESTER         .  ••••••'         32 

KENDAL  •          *  .      40 

40 
THE  DOVE'S  NEST 

WORDSWORTH  AND  SOUTHEY  . 

CARLISLE        . 

HOLYROOD 

HAWTHORNDEN     . 

•  •  .  .  07 

GLASGOW 

LOCH  LOMOND        . 

CORRA  LINN       .  -i          .    105 

EDINBURGH  *  *        109 

•  •  •  •  119 

MELROSE  AND   ABBOTSFORD      . 
HUNTLEY-BURN     . 
SHEEP  AMONG  THE  CHEVIOTS 
NKWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE 
YORK  AND  ITS  MINSTER    . 
BIRMINGHAM  AND   SHEFFIELD 


CHATSWORTH  AND  HADDON  HALL 


1  DO 


THE  FIRST  THREE  DAYS  AT  SEA. 


OUT  on  the  Sea !  —  out  on  the  broad  blue  waters ! 
How  the  surges  leap  and  plunge,  as  they  bear  us 
along ;  —  wild  horses  of  the  deep,  each  in  haste  to  cast 
his  burden  upon  another's  back,  toss  his  white  mane, 
and  away. 

In  early  childhood,  it  was  my  favorite  dream  to  look, 
some  time  or  other,  on  the  brave  old  island  where  our 
best  books  came  from,  and  our  nicest  frocks,  —  where 
the  Plantagenets  strode,  and  the  Tudors  domineered, 
and  the  Tower  was  built,  and  the  Gunpowder-plot 
foiled,  —  which  our  fathers  called  the  Mother-Land, 
and  took  such  pains  to  break  loose  from.  And  now, 
here  we  are,  three  days'  sail  toward  her  green  shores. 

Yet,  when  the  time  came  to  leave,  and  all  things 
were  ready,  gladly  would  I  have  retracted.  Even  now, 
I  wonder  why  I  am  here,  with  this  great  parting-pain 
tugging  at  my  heart-strings  like  a  vampire.  Oh  !  if  I 
had  only  known  before,  what  I  know  now,  about  this 
home-sickness  and  sea-sickness. 


4  THE     FIRST   THREE    DATS    AT    SEA. 

Hour  after  hour  I  find  myself  saying,  mentally,  did 
not  my  good  physician  assure  me  that  a  voyage  would 
cure  this  incipient  bronchitis  ?  Did  not  those  who  love 
me,  and  are  wiser  than  I,  advise  me  to  come  ?  Am.  I 
not  included  in  a  pleasant  party  ?  —  with  a  lady  whom 
I  have  long  admired,  her  accomplished  clerical  son, 
whose  mind  enriches  whatever  it  contemplates,  and  a 
still  younger  gentleman,  the  son  of  esteemed  friends, 
travelling  for  improvement?  Who,  unattended  by 
their  own  immediate  family,  might  expect  to  combine 
more  genial  elements  of  protection,  classic  intercourse, 
or  social  delight  ? 

Nevertheless,  I  persist  in  saying,  that  women  who 
must  needs  take  voyages,  and  visit  foreign  parts,  had 
better  do  so  before  the  strongest  ties  of  the  heart  have 
bound  them.  Let  them  go  as  waifs,  and  all  will  be 
well  enough.  But  to  wait  till  the  thrilling  word  of 
Mother  has  been  breathed  into  their  soul,  and  then  get 
out  of  the  reach  of  that  melody,  —  over  the  "  hollow- 
sounding,  melancholy  main,"  —  that  is  a  mistake.  Out 
of  the  reach  of  that  melody,  did  I  say  ?  And  where 
would  that  be  ?  If  they  took  the  wings  of  the  morning, 
and  fled  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  even  there 
would  be  that  eternal  whisper  in  the  heart,  of  "  Moth 
er  !  Mother!" 

And  this  bright  morning,  the  third  of  August,  is  my 
daughter's  birthday,  —  the  day  that  first  brought  me  the 
"  great  mother-love,"  stronger  than  death.  Sweet 
Mary  !  never  before  has  my  hand  failed  to  spread  for 
thee  the  pleasant  gifts  of  this  consecrated  season.  And 


THE    FIRST    THREE    DATS    AT    SEA.  5 

the  youngest  —  the  little  brother  at  his  school  —  who 
in  the  intensity  of  his  loving,  timid  nature,  could  not 
lift  his  large  violet  eyes  through  their  dewy  fringes, 
when  I  bade  him  farewell ! 

Fade,  visions,  fade !  Hence,  memories  that  shake 
me  like  a  reed.  Soul !  look  abroad  upon  the  mighty 
ocean,  and  up  to  the  glorious  sky  where  God  reigneth. 
Trust  in  Him,  and  be  content. 

TJiree  days  at  Sea  !     I  little  thought 

'T  would  be  so  hard  to  say 
Farewell  to  home  and  cherished  ones, 

And  boldly  launch  away ; 
For  from  my  childhood  I  had  longed 

Through  classic  climes  to  rove, 
Where  yellow  Tiber  proudly  rolls, 

Or  Sappho  sang  of  love, 
Or  where  o'er  Snowden's  forehead  gushed 

The  Cambrian  harp,  —  but  tears 
That  round  my  hearth-stone  rained  that  morn, 

Made  dim  the  hope  of  years. 

Three  days  !     As  long  as  he  of  old, 

The  recreant  prophet,  staid 
In  living  casket,  strangely  sealed 

Amid  the  sea- weed's  shade  ; 
He  who  from  crime-stained  Nineveh 

Withheld  the  warning  cry, 
And  in  a  ship  of  Tarshish  dreamed 

To  'scape  the  all-seeing  Eye  ; 


THE    FIRST    THREE   DAYS    AT    SEA. 

And  then,  beside  his  smitten  gourd, 
Spake  out  with  murmuring  breath, 

To  vindicate  his  bitter  right 
Of  anger  unto  death. 

"  On  the  third  day  He  rose  !  "      Who  rose 

My  spirit's  strength  and  stay  ; 
Unto  whose  blessed  skirts  I  '11  cling 

Till  life  is  rent  away. 
It  matters  not,  though  death  draw  nigh 

In  curtained  chamber  fair, 
Or  on  the  deep,  'mid  wrecking  blasts, 

If  He  be  with  us  there. 
Oh  !  may  my  ransomed  soul  at  last, 

Time's  storm-tried  voyage  o'er, 
Sit  down,  like  Mary,  at  His  feet, 

And  listen  evermore. 


THE    VISITANT. 


A  VISITANT  !  Who  could  have  expected  such  an 
event  ?  From  calls  we  supposed  ourselves  plainly 
excused,  and  had  not  instructed  a  single  billow  to  say, 
"  Not  at  home." 

No  sail  breaks  the  smooth  line  of  the  horizon.  No 
pilot-boat  rides  the  wave.  Yet  here,  indeed,  comes  a 
guest.  His  feet  rest  among  the  shrouds.  A  lone,  del 
icate  land-bird ! 

Long  and  weary  was  the  way  he  must  have  come  to 
pay  us  his  respects.  Five  hundred  miles  would  scarce 
ly  bring  us  to  the  nearest  point  of  Newfoundland,  our 
next  land-neighbor ;  and,  from  the  home-shore  which 
last  we  saw,  we  are  nearly  thrice  that  distance. 

If  the  welcome  of  a  guest  bears  any  proportion  to 
the  pains  he  takes,  or  the  space  he  traverses  to  reach 
us,  yon  panting  traveller  should  be  kindly  made  at 
home.  A  bright  little  English  girl  ran  with  a  nice 
cage,  begging  it  might  be  installed  therein  as  her  pro 
tege  !  This  was  probably  her  view  of  presenting  the 
freedom  of  the  city  in  a  gold  box. 

Similar  messengers  came  forth,  some  two  centuries 
since,  to  greet  our  exploring  ancestors,  as  they  drew 


8  THE    VISITANT. 

near  this  terra-incognita.  Seventy  days  had  the  storm- 
tossed  bark  which  bore  Governor  Winthrop  and  his 
people,  ploughed  the  wave.  As  the  misty  line  of  the 
harbor  of  Salem  gleamed  on  their  view,  "  behold,"  said 
he,  "  there  came  forth  to  us,  into  our  ship,  a  wild 
pigeon  and  another  small  bird,  likewise  a  smell  from 
the  shore,  like  unto  that  of  a  garden." 

Blessed  land-breeze !  and  blessed  heralds  !  The 
long-prisoned  and  not  over-fed  children  crumbled  their 
stale  bread  for  those  winged  visitants.  They  clapped 
their  little  hands  at  the  irised  hues  of  the  pigeon's 
glossy  neck,  as  it  turned  its  head  from  side  to  side, 
timidly  regarding  them. 

But  our  winged  herald  partook  of  no  banquet,  nor 
accepted  the  hospitality  of  the  proffered  mansion.  He 
was  not  even  like  the  guest  who  tarrieth  but  a  night. 
His  business  was  to  die.  His  wearied  wing  was  ex 
hausted  —  his  head  drooped,  —  he  fell  to  rise  no  more. 
Like  the  Dove  that  surmounted  the  Deluge,  he  reached 
the  Ark,  but  for  him  there  was  no  Ararat. 

The  circumstance  was  not  without  its  sadness.  The 
monotony  of  our  voyage  had  been  varied  by  the  advent 
of  the  little  trembler,  and  its  death  was  not  a  matter  of 
indifference. 


BIRD  of  the  land !  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Lone  wanderer  o'er  a  trackless  bound, 
With  nought  but  frowning  skies  above, 

And  wild,  unfathomed  seas  around. 


THE    VISITANT. 

Amid  the  shrouds,  with  panting  breast 
And  drooping  head,  I  see  thee  stand. 

While  pleased  the  hardy  sailor  climbs 
To  clasp  thee  in  his  roughened  hand. 

Say,  didst  thou  follow,  league  on  league, 
Our  pointed  mast,  thine  only  guide, 

When  but  a  floating  speck  it  seemed 
On  the  broad  bosom  of  the  tide  ? 

Amid  Newfoundland's  misty  bank 

Hadst  thou  a  nest,  and  nurslings  fair  ? 

Or  cam'st  thou  from  New-England's  vales  ? 
Speak !  speak !  what  tidings  dost  thou  bear  ? 

What  news  from  native  land  and  home  ? 

Press'd  closely  to  thy  panting  side, 
Hast  thou  some  folded  scroll  of  love, 

Light  courier  o'er  the  dangerous  tide  ? 

A  bird  of  genius  art  thou  ?  say  ! 

With  impulse  high  thy  spirit  stirred. 
Some  region  unexplored  to  gain, 

And  soar  above  the  common  herd  ? 

Burns  in  thy  breast  some  kindling  spark, 
Like  that  which  fired  the  glowing  mind 

Of  the  adventurous  Genoese, 
An  undiscovered  world  to  find  ? 


10  THE    VISITANT. 

Whatever  thou  art,  how  sad  thy  fate ; 

With  wasted  strength  the  goal  to  spy, 
Cling  feebly  to  the  flapping  sail, 

And  at  a  stranger's  feet  to  die. 


'or 


For  thee  the  widowed  mate  shall  gaze 
From  leafy  chamber  curtained  fair  ; 

And,  wailing  lays  at  evening's  close, 
Lament  thy  loss  in  deep  despair. 

Even  thus,  o'er  life's  unresting  tide, 
Chilled  by  the  billow's  beating  spray, 

Some  adventitious  prize  to  gain, 
Ambition's  votaries  urge  their  way  ; 

Some  eyrie  on  the  Alpine  cliff, 

Some  proud  Mont-Blanc  they  fain  would  climb , 
Snatch  wreaths  of  laurel  steeped  in  gore, 

Or  win  from  Fame  a  strain  sublime  ; 

They  lose  of  home  the  heartfelt  joys, 

The  charm  of  seasons  as  they  roll, 
And  stake,  amid  their  blinding  course, 

The  priceless  birthright  of  the  soul : 

Years  fleet,  and  still  they  struggle  on, 
Their  dim  eye  rolls  with  fading  fire, 

Perchance  the  long-sought  treasure  grasp, 
Taste  the  brief  victory,  and  expire. 


DIVINE  WORSHIP  ON  THE  DEEP. 


OUR  first  Sabbath  at  sea  was  a  troubled  one.  The 
elements  were  at  variance,  and  ourselves  ill  at  ease. 
But  the  next  was  as  glorious  as  ocean  and  sky  could 
make  it.  Long,  swelling  surges  rose  slowly,  as  if  to 
listen,  and  then  uttered  a  deep,  farewell  strain,  as  they 
yielded  to  successive  terraces  of  foam.  Methought 
they  said,  as  if  in  grand  chorus,  "  "We  praise  Thee,  O 
God,  we  acknowledge  Thee  to  be  the  Lord." 

Ocean  put  forth  his  great  hands  and  touched  the 
sky,  as  if  teaching  us  where  our  thoughts  should  be 
on  the  day  that  the  Creator  hallowed.  Forth  also,  he 
stood  as  a  preacher,  fearfully  eloquent.  Beneath  him 
were  the  dead  whom  he  had  ingulfed,  sleeping  in 
their  unlettered  tombs.  Of  them  he  spake  to  us,  whom 
he  still  bore  upon  his  bosom.  Like  the  high-priest  of 
old,  he  lifted  his  censer  between  the  living  and  the 
dead. 

Yet  not  to  the  sermon  of  the  Sea  were  we  restrict 
ed.  Prayers,  and  sacred  instructions  were  ours,  in 
the  tuneful  utterance  of  man.  The  solemn  supplica- 


12  DIVINE   WOKSHIP   ON  THE  DEEP. 

tions  of  the  Litany,  and  especially  the  petition  "  That 
it  may  please  Thee  to  preserve  all  who  travel  by  land 
or  by  water,"  seemed  to  awaken  a  feeling  resP°nse- 

Our  officiating  clergyman  was  the  Bey.  John  Wi- 
liams  now  Assistant  Bishop  of  Connecticut,  and  his 
auTence  drawn  from  various  nations  and  grades  of  so  i- 
ety  Invalids,  and  those  temporarily  sick,  were  brought 
She  deck  upon  beds  and  sofas.  AH  the  sailors  who 
could  be  spared  from  necessary  duty,  were  present  in 
their  neatest  costume,  our  captain  always  lending  h,s 
influence  to  the  services  of  religion. 

A  few  of  the  passengers,  who  had  trained  themseve 
into  a  choir,  at  evening  prayers  in  the  cabin,  lent  u= 
heir  choicest  melodies.  And  there,  on  the  open  deck 
Sat  rushing  vessel,  thousands  of  -»•***£ 
dear  ones,  who  had  that  morning,  by  "  holy  bell  beer 
knolled  to  church,"  we  were  with  them  in  spirit  before 
one  common  Father. 

At  the  close  of  the  services,  a  scientific  singer  poured 
forth,  at  our  request,  that  sublime  anthem:  «  I  know 
hat  my  Redeemer  liveth."     Glorious  words !  which 
iver  can  utter  from  the  heart,  it  shall  be  well  with 
him,  whether  in  life,  or  in  death. 

While  peaceful  o'er  the  placid  deep,  as  waked  the  Sab- 

Wit^favOThtg  breeze  and  swelling  sails,  a  ship  pursued 
her  way, 


DIVINE    WORSHIP    OX    THE    DEEP.  13 

A  gush  of  music  strangely  sweet  came  from  her  lonely 

breast, 
A  holy  voice  of  hymns  that  lull'd  the  wearied  waves  to 

rest. 

For  there,  upon  that  open  deck,  was  held  a  solemn 

rite, 
The  worship  of  old  Ocean's  king,  the  Lord  of  power 

and  might, 
Who  with  a  simple  line  of  sand  doth  curb  its  tyrant 

tide, 
And  by  his  "  Hitherto"  enchain  and  quell  its  fiercest 

pride. 

The  earnest  tones  of  humble  prayer  each  listening  spirit 

stir, 
And  by  the  fair  young  babe  knelt  down  the  bronzed 

mariner ; 
On  couch  and  mattress,  rang'd  around,  the  sick  forgot 

their  grief, 
And  drank  the  healing  lore  of  heaven,  as  dew  the 

thirsty  leaf. 

The  thoughtful  people  of  the  Rhine,  with  Erin's  off 
spring  came, 

And  in  our  Saxon  speech  invoked  the  One  Great 
Father's  name ; 

And  little  children  gathered  near,  blest  in  their  guile 
less  thought, 

Hands  folded  close  and  lips  apart,  with  sweet  devotion 
fraught. 


14  DIVINE    WORSHIP    ON    THE    DEEP. 

Uplifted  with  the  inspiring  scene,  the  priestly  heart 

grew  bold 
To  speak  with  eloquence  of  Him,  who  the  Great  Deep 

controlled ; 
And  loftier  seem'd  his  youthful  brow,  and  more  sublime 

his  voice, 
To  warn  the  sinner  to  repent,  and  bid  the  saint  rejoice. 

A  secret  spell  was  on  the  heart  that  bowed  the  proud 
est  head ; 

Above  us,  the  eternal  skies,  —  beneath,  the  mouldering 
dead ; 

The  dead,  who  know  no  burial  rite,  save  storm  or  bat 
tle-cry, 

Close  sepulchered  in  coral  cells  where  dull  sea-monsters 
lie. 

A  blessed  privilege  it  is,  in  God's  own  courts  to 
stand, 

And  hear  the  pealing  organ  swell  and  join  the  prayer 
ful  band  ; 

Yet  deeper  doth  the  wanderer  feel  that  One  alone  can 
save, 

Whose  fleeting  life  hath  floated  forth  like  sea-weed  o'er 
the  wave. 

A    blessed    privilege    it    is    to    heed     the    Sabbath 

chime, 
And  forth  'neath  summer-foliage  walk  to  keep  the  holy 

time  ; 


DIVINE    WORSHIP    ON    THE    DEEP.  15 

Yet  who  hath  all  devoutly  praised  the  Friend  his  breath 

that  kept, 
Until  the  unpitying  mountain-surge  roam'd  round  him 

while  he  slept  ? 

Earth,  the  indulgent  mother-nurse,  with  love  her  son 

doth  guide, 

His  safety,  on  her  quiet  breast,  begets  an  inborn  pride  ; 
But  Ocean,  like  a  king  austere,  doth  mock  his  trusting 

gaze, 
And  test  the  fabric  of  the  faith,  by  which  on  Heaven 

he  stays. 

Hark  !  hark !  again  a  tuneful  sound  floats  o'er  the 
watery  plain, — 

How  passing  sweet  are  Zion's  songs  amid  the  stranger- 
main  ; 

We  taught  their  praise  to  echoing  winds  along  our 
venturous  way, 

And  to  the  billows  as  they  toss'd  in  their  tremendous 
play. 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  lives  !  "     O  Soul !  how 

great  thy  bliss, 
If  in  thine  inmost  casket  dwells  a  gem  so  pure  as 

this. 
Be  patient  'neath  the  darkest  cloud,  be  glad  whate'er 

betide ; 
"  / know  that  my  Redeemer  lives"  —  what  needs't  thou 

know  beside  ? 


16  DIVINE    WORSHIP    ON   THE    DEEP. 

Throughout  yon  wide  and  lone  expanse  no  living  thing 

is  seen, 
Save  that  the  stormy  petrel's  wing  doth  fleck  the  blue 

serene  ; 
But  ministries  of  angel-thought,  and  hopes  that  blossom 

free, 
And  tender  memories,  Cluster  round  this  Sabbath  on  the 

Sea. 


THE  GERANIUM  PLANT. 


HOLD  up  thy  head,  thou  timid  voyager! 

Vex'd  by  the  storm-clouds  as  they  darkly  roll, 
And  by  the  fiercely  tossing  waves  that  stir 

Thy  slender  root,  and  try  thy  gentle  soul, — 
S;nl  change  from  thy  sweet  garden,  where  the  dew 

Kach  morning  glistened  in  thy  grateful  eye, 
And  where  the  roughest  guest  thy  bosom  knew 

Were  busy  bee  or  gadding  butterfly  : 
It  grieves  me  sore  to  see  thy  beauties  fade, 

Wearing  the  plague-spot  of  the  sickening  spray, 
And  know  what  trouble  I  for  thee  have  made ; 

Yet  still  bear  on,  meek  partner  of  my  way, 
For  in  thy  life  I  hold  the  flowery  chain 
Of  home  and  its  delights, — here,  on  the  lonely  main. 

Poor  little  companion  !  tossed  up  and  down,  till  thou 
art  almost  shaken  out  of  thy  scanty  vase  of  earth,  how 
sorry  I  am  for  thee.  True  sympathies  there  are  be 
tween  us,  in  this  matter  of  pining  heartache.  I  fear 
thou  wilt  be  a  martyr  to  the  constancy  with  which  thou 
hast  followed  me.  Thou  dost  not  like  this  never-rest- 


18  THE    ANNIVERSARY. 

ing  sea.  No.  And  them  meanest  to  die  and  leave 
me.  I  see  that. 

From  thy  quiet  bed,  in  my  own  garden,  amid  many 
fair  sisters,  thou  wert  drawn  forth  by  my  little  daugh 
ter,  when  I  was  about  to  leave,  with  the  kind  and 
thoughtful  words,  that  "something  green  might  look 
pleasant  to  me  at  sea."  And  so  it  did.  Right  pleas 
ant  hast  thou  been  unto  me,  and  sociable,  —  yea,  elo 
quent.  I  little  imagined  the  depth  of  communion  there 
would  be  between  us.  For  the  home-spirit  was  in 
thine  heart. 

Sometimes,  when  night  closed  in  heavily,  with  those 
deep  sighs  of  the  wind  that  betoken  a  coming  storm, 
and  the  leaping  ship  seemed  fain  to  seek  a  loophole  to 
escape,  or  a  depth  to  hide  in,  I  have  drawn  closer  unto 
thee,  as  if  thou  couldst  comfort  me.  Or,  at  waking 
from  such  slumbers  as  the  hoarse  lullaby  of  the  surge 
induces,  and  raising  my  head  from  the  coffin-like  berth, 
my  eyes  fell  first  upon  thee,  and  I  spake  softly  to  thee 
as  to  a  child.  But  I  have  marked  thy  delicate  leaves 
grow  sad,  and  fall  away.  Day  by  day  I  have  num 
bered  them,  and  mourned  each  faded  one  as  a  friend. 
Now,  only  a  few  remain,  folding  themselves  around 
thy  graceful  bosom.  My  poor  rose-geranium ! 

Thirteen  days  and  nights  had  we  been  upon  the 
deep,  when  awaking  at  the  gray  hour  of  dawn,  I  re 
membered  it  wras  the  first  anniversary  of  the  death  of 
my  beloved  father,  and  beckoned  the  solemn  imagery 
of  that  scene  to  meet  me  over  the  waves.  Like  a  liv 
ing  picture,  every  lineament  gleamed  forth  ;  his  ven- 


Till:    ENGLISH    FAMILY.  19 

crable  head,  resting  upon  its  white  pillow  ;  the  bright 
ness  of  his  beautiful  hair,  on  which  fourscore  and  seven 
winters  had  scattered  no  snows  ;  his  heavy  breathing, 
mingled  with  the  gentle  dropping  of  the  summer-show 
er  upon  the  vine-leaves  at  his  casement,  and  the  meas 
ured  tick  of  the  clock,  through  that  lonely  night,  while 
bending  over  him,  I  hoped  against  hope,  that  the  sud 
den  illness  might  not  be  mortal,  and  that  the  form, 
which  but  the  day  before  had  moved  with  so  vigorous 
a  step,  would  yet  rise  up,  and  lean  upon  its  staff,  and 
come  forth  to  bless  me.  The  rain  ceased,  a  circle  of 
faint  brightness  foretold  the  rising  of  the  sun  ;  those 
precious  lips  uttered  again  the  sound  of  kind  words,  — 
the  opening  eyes  told  their  message  of  saintly  love,  the 
lids  fluttered  and  closed.  There  was  no  more  breath. 

Hark!  —  a  wail  dispels  this  reverie  of  the  heart. 
Another,  and  another — piercing  and  prolonged,  be 
yond  even  that  with  which  an  only  child  mourns  the 
last  parent.  It  must  be  the  wail  of  a  mother.  No 
other  sorrow  hath  such  a  voice.  Yet  so  abruptly  it 
burst  forth,  amid  deep  and  silent  meditation,  that  for  a 
moment  memory  was  bewildered,  and  the  things  which 
had  been,  mingled  their  confused  tissue  with  things 
that  are. 

Among  our  passengers,  was  a  dignified  and  accom 
plished  lady,  returning  with  her  husband,  an  officer, 
from  a  residence  of  several  years  in  Canada,  to  Eng 
land,  their  native  land.  They  had  with  them  three 
little  daughters,  and  in  the  course  of  those  conversa 
tions  which  beguile  the  tedium  of  sea-life,  she  had 


20  THE    MOURNING    MOTHER. 

sometimes  spoken  of  the  anxiety  with  which  her  aged 
mother  waited  to  welcome  those  descendants,  born  in 
a  foreign  clime,  whom  of  course  she  had  never  seen  ; 
and  so  exquisite  was  their  beauty,  that  it  would  not 
have  been  surprising,  had  a  thrill  of  pride  heightened 
the  pleasure  with  which  she  painted  the  joy  of  such  a 
meeting.  The  youngest  was  a  babe  of  less  than  a 
year,  and  we,  who  often  shared  its  playful  wile,  fan 
cied  that  it  had  grown  languid  as  if  from  some  inhe 
rent  disease.  Yet  its  large  black  eyes  still  beamed 
with  strange  lustre,  so  that  neither  the  parents  nor  nurse 
would  allow  that  aught  affected  it,  save  what  arose 
from  the  change  of  habits,  incidental  to  the  confine 
ment  of  the  ship.  Yet,  that  night,  the  mother  more 
uneasy  than  she  was  willing  to  allow,  decided  not  to 
leave  its  cradle.  In  the  saloon  adjoining  our  state 
room  she  took  her  place,  and  when  we  retired,  the  fair 
infant  lay  in  troubled  sleep.  Yet  even  then  the  spoiler 
was  nearer  to  it  than  that  watchful  mother,  and  ere  the 
morning,  he  smote  it  in  her  arms.  We  found  her 
clasping  it  closely  to  her  bosom,  as  if  fain  to  revivify  it 
with  her  breath.  Masses  of  glossy  black  hair,  escaping 
from  their  confinement,  fell  over  her  shoulders,  and 
drooped  as  a  curtain  over  the  marble  features  of  the 
dead.  Mingled  with  gasps  of  grief,  that  shook  her  like 
a  reed,  were  exclamations  of  hope,  —  that  hope,  which 
clings  and  cleaves  to  the  wounded  heart,  binding  its 
fibres,  wherever  the  blood-drop  oozes,  and  striving  like 
a  pitying  angel,  to  staunch  where  it  may  not  heal. 
"  Constance,  Constance  !  look  at  me  !  Oh,  my  dear 


THE  PLANT'S  LAST  OFFICE.  21 

husband,  .-lie  trill  live  again.  She  has  been  sicker  than 
this  once,  when  you  were  away.  Yes,  yes,  she  will 
breathe  again."  Long  she  continued,  thus  assuaging 
her  bitter  sorrow,  with  this  vanity  of  trust,  and  then 
we  tenderly  strove  to  loosen  her  convulsive  grasp  from 
the  lifeless  idol.  After  we  had  prevailed,  and  it  was 
borne  from  her  sight,  we  still  heard,  in  the  pauses  of 
the  soothing  voice  with  which  her  husband  sought  to 
console  her,  the  wild  cry,  "  She  will  breathe  again  !  I 
saw  her  sweet  lips  move,  as  they  took  her  from  me ! 
My  baby  will  live  again !  " 

It  was  laid  out  on  our  sofa  in  the  ladies'  cabin,  in  a 
pure  white  robe,  its  brow  surpassingly  beautiful,  and 
the  deeply  fringed  lids  but  imperfectly  closed  over  its 
large  lustrous  eyes.  The  black  lace  veil  of  the  mother 
shaded  its  form  and  features,  and  through  it  was  clearly 
visible  the  last  green  slip  of  my  rose-geranium.  It  was 
my  gift  to  the  dead,  and  pressed  into  that  little  pulseless 
hand,  not  without  a  tear.  This  was  the  last  office  of 
that  cherished  plant,  which  had  left  its  own  home,  in 
the  quiet  gardens  of  New-England,  to  do  this  service 
for  faded  innocence,' and  itself  to  die.  Happy  shall  we 
be,  if  in  the  closing  of  our  frail  life,  we,  like  this  trem 
bling  voyager,  leave  behind  a  gleam  of  light  and  con 
solation,  as  the  olive-leaf  above  the  Hood,  or  the  dove 
whose  la.st  act  was  peace,  ere  it  entered  rejoicing  into 
the  ark,  to  be  a  wanderer  no  more. 


APPROACH  TO  ENGLAND. 


LAND  !  Land  !  —  The  sailor  hears  no  sweeter  sound  ! 
And  the  tired  voyager  leaps  up,  to  catch 
Through  lifted  glass  yon  misty  line,  that  marks 
On  the  horizon's  edge  his  destined  goal. 

Warm-hearted  Erin,  to  the  utmost  verge 

Of  old  Kinsale,  dipping  her  snowy  foot 

In  the  cold  surge,  came  forth,  and  held  a  light, 

And  breathed  good  wishes  on  our  venturous  way. 

But  then  we  lost  her,  and  went  groping  on, 

Day  after  day,  fog-wrapt  and  full  of  fear, 

O'er  the  vexed  Channel,  the  resounding  lead 

Probing  its  depths,  and  he  who  ruled  our  bark 

Sleepless,  and  marked  with  care  for  those  who  gave 

Both  life  and  fortune  to  his  faithful  charge. 

Would  that  I  loved  thee,  Ocean  ! 

I  had  heard 

Much  of  thy  praise,  in  story  and  in  song, 
And  oft  by  fancy  lured,  was  half  prepared 
To  worship  thee.     But  't  is  a  weary  life 
To  be  a  child  of  thine.     Thou  hast  a  smile 


APPROACH    TO    ENGLAND.  23 

Of  witching  sweetness,  yet  thy  raoods  are  strange, 
And  thy  caprices  terrible. 

Of  these 

I  was  forewarned,  however,  and  complain 
Less  of  thy  frowns,  than  thine  indulgences. 
Thine  everlasting  rocking  makes  the  soul 

h  and  sick,  like  an  o'er  cradled  child  ; 
And  thy  protracted  calmness  lulls  the  mind 
To  dreamy  idleness,  stealing  away 
That  industry  in  which  is  half  our  bliss. 
Things  from  their  nature  and  their  proper  use 
Thou  seem'st  to  turn.     The  book  we  fain  would  read 
Leaps  from  our  hand,  or  cheats  the  swimming  sight. 
The  needle  pricks  our  fingers,  and  the  pen 
Makes  zigzag  lines.     If  still  we  persevere 
Against  thy  will,  grasping  with  desperate  zeal 
Both  pen  and  table,  as  the  Jews  of  old 
With  one  hand  wrought  upon  their  wall,  and  held 
Their  weapons  with  the  other,  down  amain 
By  some  unlucky  lurch  the  inkstand  comes, 
Deluging  things  most  precious.     Last  resort 
Is  conversation,  and  with  quickened  zeal 
We  turn  to  that,  reduced  again  to  say 
The  hundredth  time,  what  we  had  said  before. 
Yet,  if  perchance  some  witticism,  or  tale, 
Well  hoarded  up,  we  bring  exulting  forth, 
No  smile  repays  our  toil,  the  listener  yawns, 
For  thou  dost  dim  perception,  and  enwrap 
Attention  in  a  trance,  and  memory  drive 
To  the  four  winds. 


24  APPROACH    TO    ENGLAND. 

Here  sit  a  pair  at  chess, 
Absorbed,  of  course,  and  there  another  group, 
Who  scarcely  keep  a  show  of  life,  to  drag 
Some  other  drowsy  game.     Still  wiser  those, 
Who  to  the  dull  necessity  of  things 
Yielding  perforce,  on  sofa,  or  on  chair, 
Doze  oyster-like. 

I  would  not  wish  to  be 
Fastidious,  or  too  difficult  to  please  ; 
Yet  I  've  a  fondness  now  and  then  to  tread 
On  something  firm,  and  not  be  always  dashed 
Against  the  wall  when  walking,  nor  in  sleep 
Tossed  from  the  pillow  to  the  state-room  floor, 
Aghast  and  ill  at  ease. 

Yet  these  are  freaks 
Doubtless  unworthy  to  be  kept  in  mind  ; 
And  we  have  much  to  thank  thee  for,  O  Deep ! 
And  would  not  be  ungrateful.     Thou  hast  shown 
Thy  summer  face,  and  poured  thy  bracing  air 
Salubrious  round  us,  and  called  freely  forth 
Thy  various  actors  on  their  tossing  stage ; 
The  kingly  whale,  the  porpoise  in  huge  shoals 
Disporting  heavily,  the  rough  sea-horse 
Churning  the  foam,  like  ponderous  elephant, 
The  dolphin,  fainting  in  his  rainbow  shroud, 
The  white  gull,  sailing  through  the  blue  serene, 
And  the  faint  land-bird,  as  it  quivering  hung 
Mid  our  wet  shrouds,  to  die. 

And  when  I  've  bowed 
My  soul  to  thee,  thou  hast  not  failed  to  breathe 


APPROACH    TO    ENGLAND.  25 

A  glorious  thought  therein,  pointing  to  Him 
Who  counts  thy  thunder  as  an  infant's  sigh. 
And  when  thy  mountain-waves,  with  solemn  night 
Upon  their  crests,  went  rushing  on,  to  do 
The  secret  bidding  of  the  Invisible, 
Oft  hath  their  terrible  beauty  waked  a  thrill 
Of  rapturous  awe,  as  if  a  spirit  spake 
From  their  dark  depths  of  God. 

And  thou  didst  spare 

Our  trembling  vessel  'mid  the  breakers  hoarse, 
What  time,  by  urgent  winds  propelled,  she  went 
Down  toward  unpitying  Bardsey's  frightful  reef. 

What  did  I  say  ?     Thou  spar'dst  us  ! 

No.     His  hand 

Who  heareth  prayer  sustained  us,  as  we  ran 
O'er  wreck-paved  Cardigan  such  fearful  course, 
As  turned  the  proudest  pale. 

And  so,  farewell ! 

I  give  thee  thanks,  but  most  of  all  rejoice 
At  our  leave-taking. 

Lo  !  the  pilot  boat 

Speeds  like  a  dancing  feather  o'er  the  surge, 
And  the  dim  outline  of  the  shore  grows  green, 
Lifting  its  spires  and  turrets  to  the  cloud. 

O  England,  Mother-Land  !  how  oft  my  heart 
In  its  young  musings,  hath  gone  out  to  thee 
With  filial  love.     For  thou  didst  tell  me  tales 
Of  ancient  times,  and  of  the  steel-clad  knights, 


2G  APPROACH    TO    ENGLAND. 

Who  battled  for  the  truth,  and  of  the  lays 
Of  wandering  minstrels,  harping  in  thy  halls, 
Until  I  longed  to  see  her  face,  whose  voice 
Could  charm  me  so,  even  as  the  simple  child, 
Going  to  rest,  asks  for  its  mother's  kiss. 

Therefore  have  I  come  forth  upon  the  wave,  — 

I,  whose  most  dear  and  unambitious  joy 

Was,  'neath  the  low  porch  of  my  vine-clad  home, 

To  twine,  at  early  morn,  such  tender  shoots 

As  the  cool  night  put  forth,  or  listening  catch 

The  merry  voices  of  my  little  ones 

Lifting  the  blossoms  from  their  turfy  bed,  — 

I  have  come  strangely  forth  upon  the  wave, 

To  take  thee  by  the  hand,  before  I  die. 

Show  me  the  birthplace  of  those  bards  of  old, 

Whose  music  moved  me,  as  a  mighty  wind 

Doth  bow  the  reed.     Show  me  their  marble  tombs, 

Whose  varied  wisdom  taught  the  awe-struck  world,  - 

Those  giants  of  old  time.     Show  me  thy  domes 

And  castellated  towers,  with  ivy  crowned, 

The  proud  memorials  of  a  buried  race  ; 

Pour  on  my  ear  thy  rich  Cathedral  hymn, 

England,  our  mother,  and  to  my  far  home 

In  the  green  West  I  will  rejoicing  turn, 

Wearing  thine  image  on  my  grateful  heart. 


YAKir.TlKS    OF    OCEAN.  27 

Our  voyage  across  the  Atlantic  had  been  eminently 
prosperous.  From  our  departure  from  New  York, 
August  1,  1840,  we  encountered  no  obstruction  dur 
ing  the  seventeen  days  that  brought  us  to  the  Irish 
coast.  Our  good  ship,  the  Europe,  Captain  Edward 
(i.  .Marshall,  surmounted  the  waves  buoyantly,  and 
often  seemed  to  skim  their  surface,  like  a  joyous  bird. 
We  almost  imagined  her  to  be  conscious  of  the  happi 
ness  she  imparted,  as,  seated  on  the  deck,  in  the  glori 
ous  summer  moonlight,  we  saw  her  sweeping  through 
the  crested  billows,  with  a  pleasant,  rushing  sound, 
right  onward  in  the  way  she  ought  to  go. 

Methought,  also,  the  deep  bestirred  itself,  to  exhibit 
its  dramatis  persona)  in  good  condition  for  our  amuse 
ment.  Immense  families  of  porpoises  rolled  and  gam 
bolled  ;  other  huge  creatures,  seeming  to  have  hideous 
ears,  leaped  and  plunged  heavily  ;  and  a  whale,  with 
her  cub,  glided  onward,  her  huge  mass  inflated  with  a 
mother's  pride  and  pleasure,  as  she  led  her  promising 
monster  to  his  ocean-play.  The  sun  came  forth  from 
his  chambers  and  returned  again  in  glorious  majesty, 
and  the  evening  phosphorescence,  contrasted  with  the 
fleecy  crest  and  the  purple  base  of  the  waves,  was  in 
tensely  beautiful. 

Thus  were  we  cheated  along  our  watery  way,  —  and 
by  making  the  most  of  the  scenery  without,  and  the 
resources  within,  experienced  as  little  ennui  as  could 
be  expected,  and  indulged  in  no  anticipation  of  evil. 
But  that  terror  of  mariners  awaited  us  in  St.  George's 
Channel,  —  a  dense  fog,  upon  an  iron-bound  coast.  We 


f 

28     FOG  IN  ST.  GEOKGE'S  CHANNEL. 

had  joyfully  seen  tbe  light  in  the  head  of  old  Kinsale  ; 
afterwards  the  harbor  of  Cork,  and  the  mountains  of 
Bungannon  revealed  themselves,  and  were  lost     Then 
.rapped  in  a  thick  curtain,  we  went  on  fea,  ully,  wlth 
con  inued  soundings.     A  chill  rain  occasionally  fell,  - 
and  the  winds  moaned  and  cried  among  the  shrouds, 
Sin"  creatures.     The  faithful  and  attentive  cap- 


took  refreshment  or  repose.     At  midnight,  «n  te 
we  heard  his  voice  cheerfully  announcing  that  a  bnght 
Ihtfrom  TuscarKock  was  visible,  that  our  course 
Its  right,  and  that  all  might  retire  to  res,,  free  from 

^morning  dawned,  I  lay  waking,  and  listening  to 
soutds   that  seemed  near  my  ear  and  even  upon  my 
pillow.     They  were  like  water  forcing  its  way  among 
Ltructions,  or  sometimes  as  if  it  were  p.ou  re     hissing 
upon  heated  stones.     At  length  I  spoke  to  the  fnend 
Jho  shared  my  state-room,  of  a  suppressed  voice  of 
Iddies   and  whirlpools,  like  what  is  often  heard  m  pass 
ing  Hurl-Gate,  when  the  tide  is  low.     She  thought  me 
motive;  but  on  hearing  that  I  had  long  been  rea 
sonfn"   with   myself,   and  yet   the   sounds   remained, 
hr  w°on  her  dressing-gown  and  ascended  to  the  deck 
The  fo-  was  still  heavy,  and  all  things  appeared  as 
lal.  =Soon  the  carpenter,  being  sent  aloft  to  -ak 
some  repairs,  shouted,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "^^ 
breakers!"     The  mist  lifted  its  curtain  a  little    and 
lo  .    a    rock,    sixty    feet    in    height,    against  wh,ch 
he  sea  was  breaking  with  tremendous  violence,  and 


BARDSEY'S  REEF.  29 

towards  which  we  were  propelled  by  wind  and  tide. 
At  the  first  appaling  glance,  it  would  seem  that  we 
were  scarcely  a  ship's  length  from  it.  In  the  agony  of 
the  moment,  the  captain,  clasping  his  hands,  exclaimed 
that  all  was  lost.  Still,  under  this  weight  of  anguish, 
more  for  others  than  himself,  he  was  enabled  to  give 
the  most  minute  orders  with  entire  presence  of  mind. 
They  were  promptly  obeyed ;  the  ship,  as  if  instinct 
with  intelligence,  answered  her  helm,  and  sweeping  rap 
idly  around,  escaped  the  jaws  of  destruction.  Still  we 
were  long  in  troubled  waters,  and  it  was  not  for  many 
hours,  and  until  we  had  entirely  passed  Holyhead,  that 
the  captain  took  his  eye  from  the  glass,  or  quitted  his 
post  of  observation.  It  would  seem  that,  after  he  had 
retired  to  rest  the  previous  night,  the  ship  must  have 
been  imperfectly  steered,  and  aided  by  the  strong  drift 
ing  of  the  tides  in  that  region,  was  led  out  of  her  course 
towards  Cardigan  Bay,  thus  encountering  the  reef 
which  is  laid  down  on  the  charts  as  Bardsey's  Isle. 

The  passengers,  during  this  period  of  peril,  were 
gdhe rally  quiet,  and  offered  no  obstruction,  through 
their  own  alarms,  to  the  necessary  evolutions  on  deck. 
One  from  the  steerage,  an  Irishman,  who  had  been 
thought,  but  a  few  days  before,  in  the  last  stages  of 
pulmonary  disease,  was  seen,  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  laboring  among  the  ropes  and  blocks,  as  if  in 
full  health  and  vigor.  It  was  fearful  to  see  him,  with 
a  face  of  such  mortal  paleness,  springing  away  from 
death  in  one  form,  to  meet  and  resist  him  in  another. 

Every  circumstance  and  personage  connected  with 


30  EFFECTS    OF    FEAR. 

that  scene  of  danger,  seem  to  adhere  indelibly  to  recol 
lection.  A  young  girl  came  and  sat  down  on  the  cabin 
floor,  and  said,  in  a  low,  tremulous  tone,  "  I  have  loved 
my  Saviour,  but  have  not  been  faithful  to  Him  as  I 
ought ;  "  and  in  that  posture  of  humility  awaited  His 
will. 

A  mother,  who  since  coming  on  board  had  taken  the 
entire  charge  of  an  infant  not  a  year  old,  retired  with 
it  in  her  arms  to  a  sofa,  when  the  expectation  of  death 
was  the  strongest  upon  us  all.  Her  eyes  were  silently 
rivetted  upon  the  nursling,  with  whom  she  might  so 
soon  go  down  beneath  the  deep  waters.  He  returned 
that  gaze  with  an  almost  equal  intensity,  and  there 
they  sat,  uttering  no  sound,  scarcely  breathing,  and 
pale  as  a  group  of  sculptured  marble. 

In  that  strange  communion  was  the  mother  impart 
ing  to  her  nursling  her  own  speechless  weight  of  ago 
ny,  at  parting  with  other  beloved  objects  in  their  dis 
tant  home  ?  Or  did  the  tender  soul  take  upon  itself  a 
burden,  which  pressed  from  it  a  sudden  ripeness  of 
sympathy  ?  Or  was  the  intensity  of  prayer  drawing 
the  spirit  of  the  child  into  that  of  the  mother,  until 
they  were  as  one  before  God  ? 

Strong  lessons  were  learned  at  an  hour  like  this. 
Ages  of  thought  were  compressed  into  a  moment.  The 
reach  of  an  unbodied  spirit,  or  some  glimpse  of  the 
power,  by  which  the  deeds  and  motives  of  a  whole  life 
may  be  brought  into  view,  at  the  scrutiny  of  the  last 
judgment,  seemed  to  reveal  itself.  Methought  the  af 
fections,  that  so  imperatively  bind  to  earth,  loosened 


GRATITUDE   FOR   DELIVERANCE.  31 

their  links  in  that  very  extremity  of  peril  ;  and  u 
strange  courage  sprang  up,  and  the  soul,  driven  to  one. 
lone  trust,  took  hold  of  the  pierced  hand  of  the  Re 
deemer,  and  found  it  strong  to  save. 

That  night  the  prayer  and  sacred  music,  which  reg 
ularly  hallowed  our  hour  of  retirement,  should  have 
been  more  deeply  surcharged  with  devout  gratitude 
tluin  ever ;  snatched  as  we  had  been  from  the  devour 
ing  flood,  and  from  "  the  evil  time,  that  snareth  the 
sons  of  men,  when  it  falleth  suddenly  upon  them." 


LIVERPOOL. 


LIVERPOOL  has  the  advantage  of  position  as  the 
giver  of  welcome  to  so  many  voyagers  to.  a  place  of  rest. 
Standing  as  she  does,  on  a  sort  of  isthmus  between  the 
Old  and  New  World,  her  greeting  hand  is  cordially 
grasped,  and  the  first  glimpse  of  her  dark,  green  robes, 
warmly  hailed. 

In  sailing  up  the  Mersey,  we  were  particularly 
struck  by  the  deep  shade  of  the  verdure  that  surround 
ed  us.  To  our  American  eyes,  it  seemed  to  have  a 
tint  of  indigo.  The  tides  in  this  river  rise  rapidly,  and 
to  the  height  of  twenty  feet.  Hence,  for  the  protection 
of  commerce,  has  arisen  the  necessity  of  those  Docks, 
whose  magnitude  astonishes  every  stranger. 

Apart  from  these,  the  city,  though  not  strikingly 
beautiful,  possesses  many  objects  of  interest.  Among 
these,  are  the  New  Cemetery,  where  we  would  fain 
have  lingered  much  longer,  had  our  bespoken  time 
allowed.  Our  attentive  captain,  who  accompanied  us 
to  the  Custom-House,  facilitating  our  business  there,  by 
his  superior  knowledge,  was  anxious  that  we  should 
also  visit  the  Bazaar  and  the  Town-Hall.  The  latter 
has  a  grand  staircase  and  a  fine  prospect  from  its 


LIVERPOOL.  33 

dome.  Some  of  its  apartments  are  adorned  with  por 
traits  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  of  members  of  the 
royal  family. 

Opposite  the  Exchange,  we  were  shown  the  cele 
brated  bronze  statue  of  Nelson.  He  is  depicted  in  the 
death-struggle,  —  Fame  and  Victory  holding  over  his 
head  several  crowns.  The  pedestal  is  surrounded  by 
a  group  of  colossal  figures  in  chains,  representing  the 
various  nations  which  he  had  either  subjugated,  or  com 
pelled  to  acknowledge  the  supremacy  of  Great  Britain. 

Among  the  illustrious  dead,  we  turned,  with  admir 
ing  recollections,  to  Roscoe,  who  ennobled  both  the 
mercantile  profession,  and  his  native  city,  by  elegant 
literature.  It  gave  us  pleasure  to  be  introduced  to 
some  of  his  descendants,  whose  intellectual  tastes  and 
amiable  feelings  betokened  affinity  to  the  author  of  Leo 
Tenth,  and  Lorenzo  de  Medici. 

By  Mr.  Gair,  formerly  from  Boston,  who,  with  his 
lady,  showed  us  great  politeness  and  hospitality,  we 
were  taken  to  attend  divine  worship  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Blue  Coat  Hospital.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  boys,  and 
one  hundred  girls,  were  assembled  there,  in  the  neat 
uniforms  of  the  Institution.  To  our  surprise,  the  whole 
service  was  performed  by  them.  A  boy  of  very  grave 
deportment  read  the  liturgy  with  solemn  intonation, 
and  the  others  distinctly  responded.  Another  officiated 
as  organist,  and  all  joined  zealously  in  the  singing. 
Catechisms  and  portions  of  Scripture  were  recited  by  a 
selection  of  the  scholars,  and  the  exercises  conducted 
and  closed  decorously. 
3 


34   SERVICE  IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  BLIND. 

The  building  appropriated  to  the  Institution  is  spa 
cious,  and  perfectly  neat.  In  one  apartment  are  por 
traits  of  its  benefactors,  among  whom  are  some  who 
were  once  pensioners  of  its  bounty.  The  advantages 
for  an  extended  education  are  not  so  great  here  as  in 
the  establishment  for  the  Blue  Coat  Boys  in  London, 
which  has  produced  some  literary  men  of  note.  The 
Liverpool  beneficiaries  are  prepared  for  the  practical 
walks  of  life,  and  become  apprentices  to  artisans  or 
tradesmen.  Before  leaving,  we  were  invited  to  see  the 
children  taking  their  Sunday  supper.  Each  had  on  a 
wooden  plate  a  huge  mass  of  bread,  with  a  modicum  of 
cheese,  and  by  its  side  a  small  cup  of  ale ;  all  of  which 
elements  they  were  discussing  with  a  visible  relish. 
Their  appearance  was  healthful,  and  their  deportment 
quiet,  and  in  perfect  subordination.  How  blessed  is  that 
benevolence,  which  rescues  the  young  from  ignorance 
and  poverty,  and  inspires  them  with  motives  to  become 
useful  here,  and  happy  hereafter.  It  is  peculiarly  hon 
orable,  in  a  commercial  city,  to  devote  time  and  atten 
tion  to  these  departments  of  philanthropy. 

Another  high  gratification  awaited  our  first  Sabbath 
in  England,  which  was  really  the  first  day  spent  on  her 
shores,  —  our  arrival  having  been  on  the  afternoon  of 
Saturday.  This  gratification,  never  to  be  forgotten, 
was  the  service  in  the  Church  of  the  Blind.  The  music 
of  these  sightless  worshippers  surpasses  description. 
They  chant  as  in  the  cathedral  service,  accompanied 
by  the  organ,  and  sing  anthems  and  other  compositions 
with  a  soul-thrilling  sweetness.  Of  course,  all  these 


DIVINE    SERVICE.  35 

performances  are  acts  of  memory,  which  is  doubtless 
rendered  more  retentive  by  the  concentrativeness  of 
thought  that  blindness  promotes.  The  noble  asylum 
for  these  sightless  worshippers  is  well  patronized. 
Their  church  is  adorned  with  two  large  paintings,  and 
a  transparency ;  and  was  filled  by  a  respectable  audi 
ence.  The  seats  for  the  objects  of  the  Institution  are 
in  the  gallery.  Sweet  and  heaven-born  is  that  Charity 
which,  if  she  may  not,  like  her  Master,  open  the  blind 
eye  to  the  works  of  nature,  pours  upon  the  afflicted 
mind  the  light  of  knowledge,  and  lifts  up  the  soul  to 
the  "  clear  shining  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness." 


One  day,  the  ocean's  might  to  dare, 
While  the  lone  ship  with  rushing  prow 

Adventurous  cuts  her  doubtful  way, 
With  clouds  above  and  waves  below, 

One  day,  the  booming  surge  to  hear, 
Mid  wrecking  winds'  impetuous  roar, 

And  press  the  next  with  speechless  joy 
Our  mother  Albion's  verdant  shore, 

To  list  her  Sabbath's  sacred  chime, 
To  kneel  amid  her  kneeling  train, 

Seems  like  the  pageant  of  a  dream 

That  weaves  its  mockery  round  the  brain, 


36  DIVINE    SERVICE. 

Yet  thus  it  is.     And  here  we  stand 
Within  that  consecrated  dome,        * 

Which  true  benevolence  hath  reared 
To  yield  the  sightless  poor  a  home. 

Yet,  thus  it  is.     How  passing  sweet, 
Ye  stricken  blind,  your  chanted  lays, 

Those  breathings  of  a  chastened  soul, 
That  turns  its  discipline  to  praise. 

Yet  think  not,  though  in  heart  you  mourn 
The  shrouded  charms  of  hill  and  plain, 

That  all  your  lot  withholds  is  loss, 
Or  all  our  boasted  pleasures,  gain. 

Ye  miss  the  sight  of  wan  decay, 
The  wrinkle  on  the  brow  so  dear, 

The  sunny  ringlet  changed  to  gray, 
The  flush  of  youth  to  sorrow's  tear, 

Ye  miss  the  cold  averted  eye, 

The  scowl  of  passion's  fierce  control, 

The  leer  of  pride,  the  frown  of  hate, 

The  glance  of  scorn  that  stings  the  soul, 

Ye  miss  the  fading  of  the  rose, 

The  lily  drooping  on  its  stalk, 
The  frosty  blight,  that  autumn  throws 

O'er  vine-wreathed  bower  and  summer  walk. 


DIVINE    SERVICE.  37 

We  see  indeed  the  form,  the  smile, 

The  lip  that  gives  affection's  kiss  ; 
Yet  thoughtless  oft,  or  thankless  grow, 

Even  from  the  fullness  of  our  bliss. 

We  roam  amid  creation's  wealth. 

Vale,  grove,  and  stream  and  flower-decked  plain, 
Yet  heedless  of  their  Maker's  voice, 

Become  desultory  and  vain. 

But  musing  contemplation  seeks 

"Well  pleased,  your  bosom's  inmost  cell, 

And  Memory  lauds  the  thoughtful  train, 
Who  guard  her  precious  gold  so  well. 

Then  be  not  sad ;   for  Knowledge  holds 
High  converse  with  the  hermit-mind, 

And  tenderest  Sympathy  is  yours, 

And  heaven-born  Music  loves  the  blind. 

She  loves  and  claims  you  for  her  own, 

And  strives  melodiously  to  pay, 
With  rapturous  thrill  and  dulcet  tone, 

For  what  stern  Nature  takes  away. 

Say,  hath  there  not  been  partial  praise 
Dealt  to  that  orb,  whose  skill  refined 

Collects  the  tints  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  paints  their  picture  for  the  mind  ? 


38  DIVINE    SERVICE. 

"While  the  reporter  of  the  soul, 

That  patient  friend  since  life  was  young, 

That  links  reverberated  sound, 
Still  toils  unhonored  and  unsung  ? 

The  eye,  with  all  its  mystic  lore, 

Its  sparkling  glance,  its  varying  dye, 

From  lover's  lute  and  minstrel's  strain 
Hath  drunk  of  old  high  eulogy  ; 

'  While  in  its  clustering  thicket  hid, 
The  ear  unchronicled  remained, 
Yet  ever  with  the  ruling  mind 

Close  league  and  covenant  maintained. 

For  what  were  eloquence,  shouldst  thou, 
Harp  of  the  soul,  thine  aid  deny  ? 

And  how  would  love's  soft  errand  speed, 
Shouldst  thou  forget  his  whispered  sigh  ? 

And  how  must  high  devotion  droop, 
If  all  his  glorious  themes  should  be 

Lost  in  thy  labyrinthine  maze, 
Or  misinterpreted  by  thee  ? 

Oh  peaceful  blind  !  the  wheels  of  life, 
That  with  their  dust-clouds  dim  the  soul, 

Ye  see  not  their  revolving  strife, 
But  catch  their  music  as  they  roll ; 


DIVINE    SERVICE.  39 

Ye  see  not  how  the  scythe  of  time 

Cuts  the  young  blossom  ere  it  springs, 

Yet  may  you  trace  with  skill  sublime 
The  heavenward  movement  of  his  wings. 

Chant  on  !  chant  on !  ye  sightless  choir ; 

Still  bow  the  heart  to  music's  sway, 
And  fill  the  stranger's  eye  with  tears, 

As  ye  have  done  for  us  this  day. 


CHESTER. 


QUEER,  quaint,  old  Chester,  —  I  had  heard  of  thee 
From  one,  who  in  his  boyhood  knew  thee  well, 

And  therefore  did  I  scan,  with  earnest  eye, 
The  castled  turret,  where  he  used  to  dwell, 

And  the  fair  walnut  tree,  whose  branches  bent 

Their  broad,  embracing  arms  around  the  battlement. 

His  graphic  words  were  like  the  painter's  touch, 
So  true  to  life,  that  I  could  scarce  persuade 

Myself  I  had  not  seen  thy  face  before, 

Or  round  those  ancient  walls  and  ramparts  strayed, 

And  often,  as  thy  varied  haunts  I  ken'd 

Stretched  out  my  hand  to  thee,  as  a  familiar  friend. 

Grotesque  and  honest-hearted  art  thou,  sure, 
And  so  behind  this  very  changeful  day, 

So  fond  of  antique  fashions,  it  would  seem 
Thou  must  have  slept  an  age  or  two  away. 

The  very  streets  are  galleries,  and  I  trow 

Thy  people  all  were  born  some  hundred  years  ago. 


CnESTER.  41 

Old  Rome  was  once  thy  guest,  beyond  a  doubt, 
And  many  a  keepsake  to  thy  hand  she  gave, 

Trinket,  and  rusted  coin,  and  lettered  stone, 
Ere  with  her  legions  she  recrossed  the  wave  ; 

And  thou  dost  hoard  her  gifts  with  pride  and  care, 

As  erst  the  Gracchian  dame  displayed  her  jewels  rare. 

Here,  'neath  thy  dim  Cathedral  let  us  pause, 

And  list  the  echo  of  that  sacred  chime, 
That,  when  the  heathen  darkness  fled  away, 

Went  up  at  Easter  and  at  Christmas  time, 
Chants  of  His  birth,  who  woke  the  angel-train, 
And  of  that  bursting  tomb,  where  Death  himself  was 
slain. 

i 

Ho !  Mercian  Abbey,  hast  thou  ne'er  a  tale 

Of  grim  Wulpherius,  with  his  warriors  dread  ? 
Or  of  the  veiled  nuns  at  vigil  pale, 

Who  owned  the  rule  of  Saxon  Ethelfled  ? 
Did  hopeless  love  in  yon  dark  cloisters  sigh  ? 
Or  in  thy  dungeon  vaults  some  sentenc'd  victim  die  ? 

And  there  mid  graceful  shades  is  Eaton  Hall, 
With  princely  gate  and  Gothic  front  of  pride, 

In  modern  beauty,  though  perchance  we  fain 
Might  choose  with  hoar  antiquity  to  bide, 

For  she,  with  muffled  brow  and  legend  wild, 

Knows   well   to   charm   the    ear   of  Fancy's  musing 
child. 


42  CHESTER. 

Baronial  splendor  decks  yon  gilded  halls, 
And  here  in  niches  cold  are  armed  knights, 

And  costly  paintings  on  the  lofty  walls, 
And  every  charm  that  luxury  delights, 

And  ample  parks,  and  velvet  lawns,  where  stray 

The  ruminating  herd,  or  the  white  lambkins  play. 

But  yet  the  flowers,  that  with  their  thousand  eyes 
Look  timid  up  and  nurse  their  infant  gem, 

To  me  are  dearer  than  the  gorgeous  dome, 
Or  fretted  arch,  that  overshadows  them. 

Methought  their  soft  lips  ask,  all  bright  with  dew, 

The  welfare  of  their  friends,  that  in  my  country  grew. 

Yes,  in  my  simple  garden,  far  away 

Beyond  the  ocean  waves,  that  toss  and  roll, 

Your  gentle  kindred  drink  the  healthful  ray, 
Heaven's  holy  voice  within  their  secret  soul, 

And  the  same  words  they  speak,  so  pure  and  free, 

Unto  my  loved  ones  there,  that  here  ye  say  to  me. 

Chester,  on  the  borders  of  the  principality  of  Wales, 
exhibits  peculiar  features  to  an  American  eye.  Its 
dwellings,  with  high,  pointed  roofs,  and  carved  gables 
turned  towards  the  street,  throw  a  projecting  story  over 
the  sidewalks,  so  that  passengers  move  along  as  if  in 
covered  vestibules.  This  has  an  odd  effect,  for  at  first 
view  the  people  in  the  streets  seem  to  be  in  the  houses, 
and  those  who  are  in  the  houses,  in  the  streets.  It 


CASTLE    AND    CATHEDRAL.  43 

furni-lies  the  only  specimen  of  ancient  fortification,  ex 
tant  in  England,  with  the  exception  of  Carlisle.  The 
towers  by  which  they  were  defended,  were  anciently 
placed  at  bow-shot  distance,  that  they  might  afford  aid 
to  each  other,  as  well  as  annoy  the  besieging  enemy. 
1 1-  walls  are  nearly  two  miles  in  circumference,  and 
afford  an  agreeable  promenade,  varied  by  the  windings 
of  the  River  Dee. 

Chester  Castle,  where  a  garrison  is  stationed,  was  to 
me  a  structure  of  absorbing  interest,  from  having  often 
heard  it  minutely  described  by  my  husband,  who  had 
spent  some  time  there  in  his  boyhood,  with  a  relative 
who  had  married  an  English  officer,  —  Capt.  Edward 
Barren,  at  that  time  the  commander  of  the  fortress. 
Methought  his  voice,  delineating  the  scenes  and  cus 
toms  which  had  the  most  strongly  impressed  his  young 
fancy,  still  mingled  with  the  breeze  that  sighed  around 
its  dark  time-worn  battlements. 

Chester  was  the  first  to  introduce  our  party  to  what 
we  had  long  desired  to  see,  —  the  Cathedrals  of  the 
Mother-Land.  Her  own  was  less  distinguished  by 
splendor  than  most  of  those  grand  specimens  of  eccle 
siastical  architecture.  Its  length  is  stated  at  350  feet,  its 
breadth  76,  and  the  altitude  of  its  tower  127.  It  was 
erected  in  the  fifteenth  century,  though  its  most  ancient 
portion,  originally  an  abbey,  was  founded  11  CO  years 
since,  by  AVulpherius,  king  of  Herein.  The  Danes 
destroyed  it  when  they  took  possession  of  Chester,  in 
895  ;  but  it  was  afterwards  restored,  and  placed  under 
the  government  of  Ethelfieda,  daughter  of  Alfred  the 


44  EATON    HALL. 

Great.  Beneath  its  low-browed  arches  we  were  shown 
the  tomb  of  Henry  IV.,  of  Germany,  and  some  Roman 
relics.  Among  the  latter  was  a  stone,  with  an  obscure 
Latin  inscription,  purporting  that  one  thousand  paces 
of  the  wall  were  built  by  the  cohort,  under  Ocratius 
Maximinius.  It  is  well  known  that  the  head-quarters 
of  the  twentieth  Roman  legion  were  at  Chester,  and 
that  it  is  supposed  to  derive  its  name  from  Castram,  a 
camp  or  military  station.  Many  circumstances  led  me 
to  explore,  with  peculiar  interest,  this  antique  and  for 
tified  town. 

A  ride  of  four  miles  beyond  it  brings  you  to  Eaton 
Hall,  the  seat  of  the  Marquis  of  Westminster.  Its 
principal  gate  of  entrance  is  said  to  have  been  erected 
at  the  expense  of  £10,000 ;  and  the  grounds,  which  are 
seven  miles  in  extent,  are  laid  out  in  parks,  interspersed 
with  shrubbery,  beautiful  flowers,  and  tasteful  por- 
ers'  lodges.  The  mansion,  a  specimen  of  the  modern 
Gothic,  is  seven  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  exhibits 
an  imposing  range  of  towers,  pinnacles,  and  turrets. 
The  interior  has  a  costly  display  of  paintings,  statuary, 
sculpture,  and  gilding.  The  superb  library,  one  hun 
dred  and  thirty  feet  in  length,  divided  into  three  com 
partments,  was  shown  us,  as  were  also  the  dining-room, 
state-chamber,  and  other  richly  furnished  apartments. 
As  it  was  the  first  baronial  establishment  our  republi 
can  eyes  had  ever  beheld,  we  regarded  it  with  atten 
tion.  There  was  much  to  admire,  especially  in  the 
high  state  of  cultivation  that  marked  its  environs  ;  yet 
the  mind  reverted  with  deeper  sympathy  to  the  time- 


lit  KAL     COMFORT.  45 

worn  structures  we  had  just  quitted,  and  preferred  to 
linger  among  the  shadows  of  mouldering  antiquity. 

During  our  ride  of  ten  miles  from  Chester  to  East- 
ham,  where  we  took  passage  in  a  steamer  for  Liver 
pool,  we  had  delightful  views  of  the  blossomed  hedges 
and  cottage-homes  of  England.  And  as  whatever  we 
see  of  surpassing  excellence  in  a  foreign  country,  we 
are  naturally  desirous  of  transplanting  to  our  own,  we 
could  not  avoid  wishing  that  our  agricultural  friends  at 
home,  who  are  such  models  of  industry  and  domestic 
virtue,  would  be  more  careful  to  surround  their  dwell 
ings  with  comfortable  and  agreeable  objects.  Were 
they  to  build  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  spare  the  expense 
of  large  rooms,  seldom  to  be  used,  and  never  to  be 
warmed,  for  a  fruit  inclosure,  or  a  walk  of  shrubbery, 
or  a  garden  with  flowers,  would  it  not  make  their  young 
people  love  home  the  better,  and  be  happier  there  ? 
AVhat  is  lovely  to  the  eye  need  be  no  hindrance  to  the 
"  things  that  are  of  good  report."  It  may  be  a  help  to 
them.  If  the  farmer,  instead  of  making  war  on  all  the 
forest-trees,  as  if  they  were  Amorites  and  Jebusites, 
whom  he  had  been  commanded  to  exterminate,  would 
save  some  of  those  majestic  columns  of  the  Maker's  work 
manship,  and  even  indulge  himself  in  the  pleasure  of 
planting  others,  on  the  borders  of  some  sunny  road,  or 
sparkling  fountain,  he  might  hear  the  wearied  trav 
eller  bless  him.  And  if,  instead  of  counting  it  lost  time 
to  beautify  the  home  where  he  trains  his  little  ones,  he 
would  in  his  leisure  moments  nurture  a  vine,  or  a  rose- 
plant  for  them,  and  teach  them  to  admire  the  bud  open- 


46  THE    SHOWER. 

ing  its  infant  eye,  and  the  tendril  reaching  forth  its 
clasping  hands,  he  would  find  their  characters  refining 
under  these  sweet  rural  influences,  and  their  hearts 
more  ready  to  appreciate  His  goodness,  who  feedeth 
the  lily  on  the  moorlands,  and  maketh  the  "  wilder 
ness  to  blossom  as  the  rose." 

On  this  excursion  we  had  our  first  specimen  of  the 
dripping  skies  of  good  old  England, — 

For  as  we  turned  — 
Our  visit  o'er —  and  on  the  public  coach 
Chose  out  the  topmost  seat,  rejoicing  much 
At  the  fair  prospect  of  the  whitewash'd  cots, 
Hedge-guarded  and  rose-sprinkled,  —  all  at  once 
Down  came  the  rain. 

It  was  an  awkward  thing 

To  meet  such  drenching  streams,  all  pinioned  close, 
And  perched  on  dizzy  roof.     To  get  inside, 
With  each  bespoken  cushion  densely  pack'd, 
Was  quite  impossible.     Nor  did  it  seem. 
More  feasible,  with  swaying  arm  to  hold 
The  wet  umbrellas,  and  adjust  their  seams 
Like  a  torn  tent-roof,  and  our  place  maintain 
Upon  that  flying  vehicle. 

And  so 

Our  party,  cowering  close,  with  drooping  plumes, 
Praised  earnestly  our  own  less  watery  skies, 
Or,  silent,  mused,  as  women  sometimes  will, 
Upon  an  injured  wardrobe.     I  deplored 
My  well-saved  cashmere  shawl,  a  very  sponge, 


THE    SHOWKK.  47 

And  brilliant  ribbons  ruin'd.     Glad  at  heart, 
Ten  weary  miles  achiev'd,  the  boat  we  saw 
Riding  beside  the  pier. 

But  every  change 
Is  not  a  benefit.     The  heavy  storm 
Drove  to  that  single  cabin,  small  and  low, 
More  than  it  well  could  hold.     There  was  a  scene 
Of  strange  discomfort ;  forms  that  jostled  hard 
Against  they  knew  not  who,  and  jutting  arms 
Reduced  from  their  sharp  angle  suddenly  ; 
Feet,  that  their  neighbor's  rights  invaded  ;  force, 
Used  to  no  purpose,  and  complaints  as  vain  ; 
And  fear  of  pickpockets,  and  gasping  breath 
That  of  impure  and  suffocating  air 
Told  more  than  speech  could  utter. 

There  we  stood, 

Ready  to  faint,  while  on  the  narrow  bench 
That  lin'd  the  wall,  sat  here  and  there  a  man, 
Porter,  or  sturdy  laborer,  with  square  hands 
And  clumsy  hobnailed  shoes,  who  gave  no  place 
To  woman's  weaker  form.     But,  from  a  nook, 
Struggling,  as  best  he  might,  with  sparkling  eye, 
And  beard  of  richest  auburn  o'er  his  breast 
Depending,  came  a  Jewish  stranger  forth, 
And  gave  his  seat,  and  press'd  it  earnestly. 

O  son  of  Abraham  !  thou  hast  better  learn 'd 
Than  these,  thy  brethren,  of  a  higher  faith, 
The  lesson  by  their  own  Apostle  taught, 
How  to  "  be  courteous."     Now,  my  wearied  limbs 


48  COURTESY. 

Upon  the  seat  so  pleasantly  reclin'd, 
I  fain  would  sing  the  praise  of  courtesy, 
Such  as  it  flourish'd  in  the  olden  time, 
Spreading,  chivalrously,  its  mantle  down 
For  lady's  foot,  or  soothing  the  morose 
Into  a  good  opinion  of  themselves, 
And  opening  thus  a  loophole,  whence  good  will 
To  others  might  peep  through  ;  or,  better  still, 
When  link'd  to  Christian  principle,  it  breathes 
The  law  of  kindness,  and  with  winning  grace 
Doth  make  another's  happiness  its  own. 


KENDAL. 


A  PL  K  AS  ANT  home-feeling  came  over  us  at  Kendal. 
There  our  own  little  party  of  four,  brightened  a  rain 
storm  with  agreeable  talk,  and  kept,  in  a  quiet  way, 
the  birthday  of  one  of  our  number,  at  a  comfortable 
retreat,  bearing  the  name  of  the  "  Commercial  Inn." 
Less  splendid  in  its  apartments  than  some  of  the 
similar  establishments  in  populous  cities,  it  comprised 
every  material  element  of  satisfaction  for  those  who, 
wearied  with  a  recent  voyage,  were  happy  to  refresh 
their  spirits  in  each  others'  society,  and  find  something 
stable  under  their  feet. 

We  again  selected  it  for  a  habitation  on  our  return 
from  an  excursion  to  the  Lakes  of  Cumberland,  prom- 
ising  to  recommend  it  to  our  friends.  Indeed,  it  would 
generally  be  safe  to  bestow  high  approval  on  the  means 
and  appliances  for  the  traveller's  accommodation  in 
England.  Fine  roads,  excellent  coaches,  coachmen 
and  horses,  the  best  possible  arrangement  of  railways 
and  cars,  the  fairest  provisions  for  the  table,  scrupulous 
neatness  in  the  dormitories,  and  the  respectful  attend 
ance  of  intelligent  servants,  await  him  throughout  his 
4 


50  HISTORICAL    INCIDENT. 

course.  If  the  price  demanded  is  in  proportion  to  the 
liberal  benefits  received,  that  is  but  justice.  Those 
who  freely  partake,  should  be  willing  to  accord  the 
remuneration.  If  they  are  not,  they  will  be  very  likely 
to  become  so,  after  a  taste  of  the  discomforts  and  delays 
of  continental  travel. 

In  wandering  about  Kendal  we  found  the  ruins  of  a 
castle,  which  was  distinguished  as  the  birthplace  of 
Catharine  Parr,  and  also  an  old  church,  of  which  a 
curious  incident  is  related,  during  the  civil  wars  in  the 
times  of  Charles  First.  An  adherent  to  the  royal 
cause,  by  the  name  of  Philipson,  was  on  a  visit  to  his 
brother  who  resided  on  the  principal  island  of  Winan- 
dermere.  He  had  not  long  enjoyed  this  rural  resi 
dence,  ere  information  of  his  locality  was  spread 
abroad,  and  the  house  besieged  by  Parliamentary 
troops,  under  the  command  of  Colonel  Briggs.  The 
arrival  of  unexpected  succor  caused  that  officer  to 
deem  it  expedient  to  raise  the  siege  and  retire.  But 
the  rescued  guest,  in  the  warlike  spirit  of  those  days, 
determined  on  retaliation.  Taking  command  of  a  troop 
of  horse,  he  pursued  the  retreating  forces  to  Kendal. 
There  he  demanded  Colonel  Briggs,  and  was  told 
he  had  gone  to  meeting.  Not  staying  to  dismount,  he 
spurred  his  steed  through  the  gateway,  and  into  the 
church.  Great  was  the  consternation  of  the  worship 
pers,  to  hear  the  clatter  of  horses  feet  upon  their  pave 
ment,  and  see  the  tall  rider  dash  furiously  through 
nave  and  chancel,  sharply  scrutinizing  the  face  of  every 
man,  as  he  entered  and  returned.  But  this  profana- 


KENDAL.  51 

tion  of  the  sacred  edifice  was  in  vain,  —  the  object  of 
his  search  not  happening  to  be  there. 


Kendal,  the  eldest  born  of  Westmoreland, 
With  its  white  homes,  and  cheerful  poplar  shades. 
And  graceful  bridges  o'er  the  winding  Ken, 
And  happy  children  playing  in  the  streets, 
Came  pleasantly  upon  us. 

So  we  paused, 

Leaving  the  echo  of  the  tiresome  wheels, 
Rejoiced,  amid  those  rustic  haunts  to  roam, 
And  grassy  lanes. 

There  was  an  ancient  church, 
Dark -browed,  and  Saxon-arched,  and  ivy-clad  ; 
And  there  amid  its  hallowed  isles  we  trod, 
Reading  the  mural  tablets  of  the  dead, 
Or  poring  o'er  the  dimly-sculptured  names 
Upon  its  sunken  pavement. 

Next,  we  sought 

Yon  lonely  castle,  with  its  ruined  towers, 
Around  whose  base  the  tangled  foliage,  mixed 
With  shapeless  stones,  proclaimed  no  frequent  foot 
Intruder  'mid  its  desolate  domain. 
Yet  here,  the  legend  saith,  thine  infant  eye 
First  saw  the  light,  Catharine !  the  latest  spouse 
Of  the  eighth  Tudor's  bluff  and  burly  king. 
Here  did  thy  childhood  share  the  joyous  sports 
That  well  it  loved  ?     Or  did  they  quaintly  set 
The  stiff-starched  ruff  around  thy  slender  neck, 


52  KENDAL. 

Bidding  thee  stand  upright,  and  not  demean 
Thy  rank  and  dignity  ? 

Say,  didst  thou  con 

Thy  horn-book  lessons  mid  those  dreary  halls, 
With  their  dark  wainscot  of  old  British  oak  ? 
Or  on  the  broidered  arras  deftly  trace 
Some  tale  of  tourney  and  of  regal  pomp, 
That  touched  perchance  the  incipient  energy 
Of  young  ambition  to  become  a  queen  ? 
If  it  were  so,  methinks  that  latent  pride 
"Was  well  rebuked,  perchance  purged  out  entire 
With  euphrasy  and  rue. 

How  didst  thou  dare 

To  build  thy  nest  where  other  birds  had  fallen 
So  fearfully  ?     If  e'er  the  pictured  scenes 
Of  earlier  years  stole  to  thy  palace-home, 
Pouring  their  quiet  o'er  its  vexing  cares,  — 
Some  cottage  girl,  who  watched  her  father's  sheep, 
Or  peaceful  peasant  singing  at  his  toil, 
Meekly  content,  —  came  there  no  pang  to  chase 
The  fresh  bloom  from  thy  cheek  ? 

When  in  his  sleep 

The  despot  murmured  sullenly  and  stern, 
Didst  thou  not  tremble,  lest  in  dreams  he  saw 
The  axe  and  scaffold,  and  would  madly  wake 
To  blend  thy  fate  with  that  of  Ann  Boleyn 
And  hapless  Howard  ? 

True,  thy  pious  soul 
Had  confidence  in  God,  and  this  upheld 
In  all  calamities,  and  gave  thee  power 


KENDAL.  53 

To  'scape  the  snare  ;  but  yet  methinks  't  were  sad 
For  woman's  timid  love  to  unfold  itself 
Within  a  tyrant's  breast,  trusting  its  peace 
To  the  dire  thunderbolt. 

And  so  farewell, 

Last  of  the  six  that  rashly  spread  their  couch 
In  the  strong  lion's  den. 

My  talk  with  thee 

Doth  add  new  pleasure  to  our  quiet  stroll 
Amid  the  lowly  train,  who,  free  from  thoughts 
Of  wild  ambition,  hold  their  noiseless  way. 

Then  toward  the  traveller's  home,  as  twilight  drew 

Her  dusky  mantle  o'er  the  face  of  things, 

We  bent  our  steps,  with  many  a  gathered  theme 

For  sweet  discourse,  till  welcome  evening  brought 

Refreshment  and  repose.     To  our  fair  board 

The  finny  people  of  the  Ken  came  up, 

Tempting  the  palate  in  the  varied  forms 

Of  culinary  art,  while  with  the  fruits 

That  ripen  slow  'neath  England's  shaded  skies 

Were  fresh-made  cheeses  from  the  creamy  bowls, 

Filled  by  the  herds  that  ruminate  all  day, 

In  pastures  richly  green. 

So,  well  content, 

Beside  the  shaded  lamp  we  lingering  sate, 
And  spoke  of  home,  and  of  the  Power  who  shields 
The  weary  traveller,  and  doth  bid  him  sleep 
Secure  'neath  foreign  skies,  cheering  his  dream 
With  faces  of  his  loved  ones  far  away, 


54  KENDAL. 

And  sound  of  gentle  gales  that  stir  the  vines 
O'er  his  own  door. 

For  thus  he  seems  to  hold 
Existence  in  two  hemispheres,  and  draw 
From  nightly  visions  mid  his  household  joys 
Fresh  strength  at  morn  to  run  his  destined  way, 
God  of  the  stranger !  with  new  trust  in  thee. 


THE   DOVE'S   NEST. 


Too  late  !  too  late  !  Would  that  I  might  have  ear 
lier  visited  the  Mother-Land,  and  added,  if  it  were  but 
one  sight  of  the  countenance  and  sound  of  the  voice,  to 
the  image  of  that  poet  whose  strains  thrill  my  soul. 

Yonder  unpretending  cottage,  the  Dove's  Nest,  on 
the  banks  of  Winandermere,  was  the  summer  retreat 
of  Mrs.  Ilemans,  in  1830.  She  was  struck  with  the 
retired  beauty  of  its  situation,  while  on  a  visit  to 
Wordsworth,  and  delighted  to  ascertain  that  she  could 
engage  rooms  in  it  for  herself  and  her  boys. 

It  was  during  this  year,  that  she  published  her 
"  Songs  of  the  Affections."  It  would  be  interesting  to 
know  what  portion  of  those  pure-  gems  of  the  heart 
sprang  to  light,  or  reached  their  highest  polish  amid 
the  inspirations  of  that  rural  scenery.  We  imagined 
her  seated  in  the  alcove,  which  she  has  described  as 
embowered  amid  the  eglantine  and  rose,  her  sons  —  to 
whom  -a  modern  traveller  has  given  the  epithet  of 
"  young  eagles"  —  freely  pursuing  their  sports  beneath 
her  eye. 


56  DISTINGUISHED    RESIDENTS. 

"Wonderfully  distinguished  has  that  portion  of  the 
West  of  England  been,  by  the  residences  of  cele 
brated  men.  Beside  Wordsworth  and  Southey,  and 
Coleridge,  that  most  eloquent  of  all  talkers,  —  De  Quin- 
cey,  the  talented  author,  and  Dr.  Arnold,  who  is  becom 
ing  more  and  more  endeared  to  the  lovers  of  right 
education,  have  made  it  their  abode ;  and  Professor 
Wilson,  turning  from  the  "  lights  and  shadows  of  Scot 
tish  life,"  passes  the  vacations  at  his  pleasant  villa  of 
Elleray.  Such  men  have  power  to  quicken  lifeless 
nature  with  the  soul  of  genius. 

Westmoreland  boasts  bold  mountains  of  some  two 
or  three  thousand  feet  in  height,  —  deep  gorges  of  the 
loveliest  green,  and  lakes  of  crystal.  Driving,  as  we 
did,  among  them,  in  an  open  carriage,  plunging  sud 
denly  into  ravines,  and  emerging  thence  at  an  angle 
of  forty-five  degrees,  requires  strong  nerves  to  har 
monize  high  enjoyment  with  such  headlong  exercise. 
The  beauty  of  Grassmere  is  inexpressible ;  but  some  of 
the  cottages  in  its  neighborhood  would  require  a  poet's 
enthusiasm  to  embellish  or  recommend  their  unfloored 
rudeness. 

Winandermere,  during  our  visit,  was  much  wrapped 
in  mist  and  cloud.  Still,  we  had  some  glimpses  of  its 
beautiful  expanse,  which  will  be  long  remembered. 
Sails  were  in  perpetual  motion  among  its  islets,  and  it 
has  a  dark  background  of  distant  mountains.  Accus 
tomed  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  the  largest  of  English 
lakes,  we  were  surprised  to  find  it  but  ten  miles  in 
length,  and  so  narrow,  at  some  points,  as  to  make  the 


LAKE    WINANDERMERE.  57 

entire  circumference  only  twenty-three  miles.  Though 
slightly  varied  by  protracted  drought,  or  rain,  it  is  sub 
ject  to  considerable  agitation  from  wind  and  storm.  It 
abounds  with  fine  fish,  and  is  a  favorite  resort  for  wild 
fowl  and  sportsmen,  —  the  sharp  report  of  the  rifle 
often  disturbing  the  solitary  enthusiast. 


Oh,  sweet  Winandermere  !  how  blest 
Is  he,  who  on  thy  marge  may  rest,  — 
Rear  his  light  bower ;  'neath  summer's  ray, 
Steal  from  the  fever'd  world  away,  — 
And  when  cool  twilight,  meek  and  pale, 
Spreads  o'er  thy  face  a  deeper  veil, 
List  to  the  ripple  on  the  shore, 
Or  mark  the  lightly  dripping  oar, 
Or  sink  to  sleep,  when  eve  shall  cease, 
AVith  thee,  and  all  mankind  at  peace. 

The  angler  here,  with  trolling  line, 
Dreams  on,  from  morn  till  day's  decline,  — 
And  when  brown  autumn  sets  its  seal, 
How  sharply  rings  the  hunter's  steel ; 
But  I,  with  these  no  concert  keep, 
Nor  aim  to  vex  thy  tranquil  deep ; 
Nor  barbed  hook,  with  pang  and  start, 
Plunge  in  the  finny  victim's  heart ; 
Nor  work  their  woe,  who,  roaming  free, 
Would  dip  the  oary  foot  in  thee. 


58  LAKE    WINANDERMERE. 

Fair  lakes  my  own  dear  land  can  boast, 
From  inland  glade  to  ocean  coast, 
Through  woven  copse  or  thicket  green, 
Their  blue  eyes  deeply  fringed  are  seen; 
On  hillock's  side  they  scoop  a  nest, 
Like  dew-drops  nursed  in  lily's  breast. 
By  Seneca,  and  lone  St.  Clair, 
The  mirrored  maiden  braids  her  hair, 
And,  guileless,  to  the  searching  sun, 
Turns  crystal-breasted  Horricon. 

Yet  couldst  thou  see  our  mighty  chain, 
From  red  Algonquin  to  the  main, 
Those  seas  on  seas,  which,  thundering,  leap 
O'er  strong  Niagara's  mountain-steep, 
And  bid  St.  Lawrence  hoarsely  pour 
Round  Anticosti's  trembling  shore, 
Thou,  at  their  side,  bright  gem,  wouldst  be 
Like  timid  brooklet  to  the  sea, 
And  highest  swoln  and  tempest-tost, 
Still,  as  a  noteless  speck,  be  lost. 

Still,  o'er  thy  brow  deep  memories  glide, 
And  spirit-voices  stir  thy  tide, 
For  thou  of  her  art  pleased  to  tell, 
Queen  of  the  lyre,  who  loved  thee  well, 
And  in  the  Dove's  Nest  by  thy  side, 
Sought  from  the  gazing  throng  to  hide 


LAKE    WIXANDERJ1ERE.  59 

The  laurel  o'er  her  casement  darkening, 
The  rose-tree  for  her  footstep  barkening  ; 
I  see  her  !  though  in  dust  she  sleeps  ; 
I  hear  her !  though  no  lyre  she  sweeps  ; 
And,  for  her  sake,  so  fondly  dear, 
I  bless  thee,  sweet  Winandermere. 


WORDSWORTH  AND  SOUTHEY. 


O  VALE  of  Grassmere !  tranquil,  and  shut  out 
From  all  the  strife  that  shakes  a  jarring  world, 
How  quietly  thy  village  roofs  are  bowered 
In  the  cool  verdure,  while  thy  graceful  spire 
Guardeth  the  ashes  of  the  noble  dead, 
And,  like  a  fixed  and  solemn  sentinel, 
Holm- Crag  looks  down  on  all. 

And  thy  pure  lake, 

Spreading  its  waveless  breast  of  azure  out 
'Tween  thee  and  us,  —  pencil,  nor  lip  of  man 
May  fitly  show  its  loveliness.     The  soul 
Doth  hoard  it  as  a  gem,  and,  fancy-led, 
Explore  its  curving  shores,  its  lonely  isle, 
That,  like  an  emerald  clasped  in  crystal,  sleeps. 

Ho,  stern  Helvellyn  !  with  thy  savage  cliffs 
And  dark  ravines,  where  the  rash  traveller's  foot 
Too  oft  hath  wandered  far  and  ne'er  returned, 
Why  dost  thou  press  so  close  yon  margin  green  ? 
Like  border-chieftain,  seeking  for  his  bride 
Some  cottage-maiden.     Prince  among  the  hills, 


GRASSMERE  AND  HELVELLYN.         61 

That  each  upon  his  feudal  seat  maintains 
Strict  sovereignty,  hast  thou  a  tale  of  love 
For  gentle  Grassmere,  that  thou  thus  dost  droop 
Thy  plumed  helmet  o'er  her,  and  peruse, 
With  such  a  searching  gaze,  her  placid  brow  ? 

She  listeneth  coyly,  and  her  guileless  depths 
Are  troubled  at  a  tender  thought  from  thee. 
And  yet,  methinks  some  speech  of  love  should  dwell 
In  scenes  so  beautiful.     For  not  in  vain, 
Nor  with  a  feeble  voice,  doth  He,  who  spread 
Such  glorious  charms,  bespeak  man's  kindliness 
For  all  whom  He  hath  made,  bidding  the  heart 
Grasp  every  creature  with  a  warm  embrace 
Of  brotherhood. 

Lo  I  what  fantastic  forms, 
In  sudden  change  are  traced  upon  the  sky. 
The  sun  doth  subdivide  himself,  and  shine 
On  either  side  of  an  elongate  cloud, 
Which,  like  an  alligator  huge  and  thin, 
Piercest  his  disk.     And  then  an  ostrich  seems 
Strangely  to  perch  upon  a  wreath  of  foam, 
And  gaze  disdainful  on  the  kingly  orb, 
That  lay  o'erspent  and  weary.     But  he  roused 
Up  as  a  giant,  and  the  welkin  glowed 
With  rushing  splendor,  while  his  puny  foes 
Vanished  in  air.     Old  England's  oaks  outstretched 
Their  mighty  arms,  and  took  that  cloudless  glance 
Into  their  bosoms,  as  a  precious  thing 
To  be  remembered  long. 


62  RYDAL-WATEK. 

And  so  we  turned, 

And  through  romantic  glades  pursued  our  way, 
Where  Rydal-Water  spends  its  thundering  force, 
And  through  the  dark  gorge  makes  a  double  plunge 
Abruptly  beautiful.     Thicket,  and  rock, 
And  ancient  summer-house,  and  sheeted  foam, 
All  exquisitely  blent,  while  deafening  sound 
Of  torrents,  battling  with  their  ruffian  foes, 
Filled  the  admiring  gaze  with  awe,  and  wrought 
A  dim  forgetfulness  of  all  beside. 

Thee,  too,  I  found  within  thy  sylvan  dell, 
Whose  music  thrilled  my  heart,  when  life  was  new, 
Wordsworth  !  mid  cliff  and  stream  and  cultured  rose, 
In  love  with  Nature's  self,  and  she  with  thee. 
Thy  ready  hand,  that  from  the  landscape  culled 
Its  long  familiar  charms,  rock,  tree,  and  spire, 
With  kindness  half  paternal,  leading  on 
My  stranger  footsteps  through  the  garden  walk, 
Mid  shrubs  and  flowers  that  from  thy  planting  grew  ; 
The  group  of  dear  ones  gathering  round  thy  board, 
She,  the  first  friend,  still  as  in  youth  beloved, 
The  daughter,  sweet  companion,  —  sons  mature, 
And  favorite  grandchild,  with  his  treasured  phrase, 
The  evening  lamp,  that  o'er  thy  silver  locks 
And  ample  brow  fell  fitfully,  and  touched 
Thy  lifted  eye  with  earnestness  of  thought, 
Are  with  me  as  a  picture,  ne'er  to  fade, 
Till  death  shall  darken  all  material  things. 


VISIT   TO    WORDSWORTH.  63 

An  excursion  to  Grassmere  and  Ilelvellyn,  the  Falls 
of  Rydul- Water,  Stock-Gill-Force,  and  other  points  of 
interest  in  the  vicinity  of  Ambleside,  communicated 
great  pleasure  to  our  party  ;  but  at  our  return  we 
found  it  had  been  purchased  by  the  loss  of  a  call  from 
the  poet  Wordsworth.  Though  I  had  more  earnestly 
desired  to  see  him  than  almost  any  distinguished 
writer,  whom  from  early  life  had  been  admired,  it  was 
with  a  degree  of  diilidencc,  amounting  almost  to  tre 
pidation,  that  I  accepted  the  invitation  to  his  house, 
which  had  been  left  at  the  inn.  As  I  approached  his 
lovely  and  unpretending  habitation,  embowered  with 
ivy  and  roses,  I  felt  that  to  go  into  the  presence  of 
Europe's  loftiest  crowned  head,  would  not  cost  so 
much  effort,  as  to  approach  and  endeavor  to  converse 
with  a  king  in  the  realm  of  mind.  But  the  kindness 
of  his  reception  and  that  of  his  family,  and  the  uncere 
monious  manner  in  which  they  make  a  guest  feel  as 
one  of  them,  removed  the  reserve  and  uneasiness  of  a 
stranger's  heart. 

Wordsworth  is  past  seventy  years  of  age,  and  has 
the  same  full,  expanded  brow,  which  we  sec  in  his  busts 
and  engravings.  His  conversation  has  that  simplicity 
and  richness  for  which  we  are  prepared  by  his  writ 
ings.  He  led  me  around  his  grounds,  pointing  out 
the  improvements  which  he  had  made  during  the  last 
thirty  years,  and  the  trees,  hedges,  and  shrubbery 
which  had  been  planted  under  his  direction.  Snatches 
of  the  gorgeous  scenery  of  lake  and  mountain  were 
visible  from  different  points  ;  and  one  of  the  walks 


64  WORDSWORTH'S  FAMILY. 

terminated  with  the  near  view  of  a  chapel  built  by 
his  neighbor,  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Le  Fleming,  on 
whose  domain  are  both  the  upper  and  lower  falls  of 
Rydal- Water.  In  this  beautiful  combination  of  woods, 
cliffs,  and  waters,  and  solemn  temple  pointing  to  the 
skies,  we  see  the  germ  of  many  of  his  thrilling  descrip 
tions  ;  for  his  habit  is  to  compose  in  the  open  air.  He 
loves  the  glorious  scenery  of  his  native  region,  and  is 
evidently  pleased  when  others  admire  it. 

His  household  consists  of  a  wife,  sister,  two  sons, 
and  a  daughter.  The  eldest  of  the  sons  is  married, 
and,  with  a  group  of  five  children,  resides  under  the 
same  roof,  giving  to  the  family  a  pleasant,  patriarchal 
aspect.  A  fine  boy,  of  five  years,  who  bears  the  name 
of  his  grandfather,  and  bids  fair  to  possess  somewhat 
of  his  breadth  of  brow,  is  evidently  quite  a  favorite. 
Among  his  bright  sayings  was  the  question,  whether 
"  the  Ocean  was  not  the  Christian-name  of  the  Sea  ?  " 
It  was  delighful  to  see  so  eminent  a  poet,  thus  pur 
suing  the  calm  tenor  of  a  happy  life,  surrounded  by  all 
those  domestic  affections  and  charities,  which  his  pure 
lays  have  done  so  much  to  cherish  in  the  hearts  of 
others. 

Wordsworth  seems  habitually  pensive,  almost  to  im- 
passiveness.  Yet  once  I  noticed  in  him  some  approach 
to  naivete.  We  were  all  seated  at  the  table,  convers 
ing,  after  the  tea-equipage  had  been  removed.  It  was 
a  round  table,  with  a  closely  fitting  cover  of  India- 
rubber,  on  which  a  wreath  of  rich  flowers  had  been 
painted. 


WORDSWORTH'S  BIRTHDAY.  65 

"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  table  this  is,"  said  he. 
"  It  keeps  its  own  secrets.  I  never  had  a  chance  to 
look  at  it." 

Some  little  reply  was  made  by  Mrs.  Wordsworth, 
when,  turning  to  me,  he  asked,  "Is  it  not  a  natural 
curiosity  in  me  to  wish  to  look  upon  this  table,  once 
in  my  life  ?  I  am  determined  to  see  it  now." 

With  some  difficulty,  he  disengaged  the  adhesive 
envelope,  and  spreading  out  his  thin  hands  upon  the 
board,  exclaimed,  with  satisfaction, — 

"  There  !  I've  got  a  sight  of  it  at  last.  It  is  a  mahog 
any  table,  and  a  very  good  one  too." 

This  playfulness,  set  off  by  the  solemnity  of  his  man 
ner,  seemed  to  delight  his  household,  and  was  possibly 
an  episode  of  rare  occurrence.  The  ripening  of  this 
personal  acquaintance  into  epistolary  intercourse  and 
friendship,  was  truly  gratifying  to  me,  as  was  also  his 
benignant  approval  of  the  annexed  simple  greeting,  on 
the  first  recurrence  of  his  birthday,  after  my  return 
home. 

High-thoughted  Bard  of  Rydal's  sounding  tide, 
Whose  stricken  lyre,  across  the  ocean  blue, 

Doth  stir  our  forests  in  their  unshorn  pride, 

And  sweetly  steal  the  woodman's  cabin  through. 

Thy  day  of  birth,  here,  on  Columbia's  shore, 
The  sons  of  song  in  faithful  memory  keep  ; 

White-pinioned  sea-birds  brought  the  record  o'er 
The  tossing  billows  of  the  boisterous  deep, — 
5 


66  SOUTHEY. 

So  now,  — the  hour  that  first  with  light  inspired 
An  eye  that  deep  in  Nature's  heart  doth  look, 

Comes  with  the  power  of  deathless  genius  fired, 
To  stamp  with  signet-ring  our  household  book : 

Oh,  Bard  of  tuneful  soul !  may  health  be  thine, 
And  ever-cloudless  peace  illume  thy  day's  decline. 

It  was  during  my  visit  to  Wordsworth,  that  I  first 
received  intelligence  of  the  melancholy  declension  of 
health  and  intellect  which  had  befallen  Southey.  With 
reluctance  I  resigned  my  intention  of  going  to  Kes- 
wick,  having  been  extremely  desirous  to  see  him,  and 
being  provided  with  letters  of  introduction  from  mutual 
friends.  How  mournful,  that  such  a  rayless  cloud 
should  envelop  that  genius  which  has  so  long  thrown 
a  bridge  of  light  and  beauty  across  the  Atlantic. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  his  prolific  and  versatile 
powers  well  symbolized  in  one  of  his  own  descriptive 
passages :  — 

"  The  stream's  perpetual  flow, 
That  with  its  shadows  and  its  glancing  lights, 
Dimples,  and  threadlike  motions  infinite, 
Forever  varying,  and  yet  still  the  same, 
Like  Time  towards  Eternity,  glides  on." 

A  letter  from  the  successor  of  his  beloved  Edith, 
mentions,  feelingly,  the  state  of  unconsciousness  that 
overshadows  him,  and  says  :  "  In  the  blackness  of  this 
darkness  we  still  live,  and  shall  pass  from  under  it, 


SOUTHEY.  67 

only  through  the  portals  of  the  grave."  She  is  well 
known  to  the  reading  public,  by  her  former  name  of 
Caroline  Bowles,  as  the  author  of  the  "  Pauper's 
Death-Bed,*'  with  other  pathetic  and  elegant  effusions. 
Her  conjugal  love  faithfully  ministers  to  this  severe 
visitation  of  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  indefatigable- 
minds  which  has  adorned  our  age. 

I  thought  to  see  thee  in  thy  lake-girt  home, 
Thou  of  creative  soul !     I  thought  with  thee 

Amid  thy  mountain  solitudes  to  roam, 

And  hear  the  voice,  whose  echoes  wild  and  free 

Had  strangely  thrilled  me,  when  my  life  was  new, 
With  old  romantic  tales  of  wondrous  lore  ; 

But  ah  !  they  told  me  that  thy  mind  withdrew 
Into  its  mystic  cell,  — nor  evermore 

Sate  on  the  lip  in  fond  familiar  word  ; 

Nor  through  the  speaking  eye  her  love  repaid, 
Whose  heart  for  thee  with  ceaseless  care  is  stirred  : 

That  mute  at  Greta-Hall,  on  willow-shade, 
Thy  sweet  harp  hung : —  They  told  me,  arid  I  wept, 
As  on  my  pilgrim  way  o'er  England's  vales  I  kept. 


CARLISLE. 


OUR  ride  from  Ambleside  to  Carlisle,  by  the  way  of 
Kendal,  was  amid  those  quiet  rains  with  which  the 
English  skies  so  often  refresh  the  traveller.  But  soon 
after  our  arrival,  the  sun  broke  forth,  revealing  a 
landscape  of  much  beauty.  This  region,  distinguished 
by  border  warfare,  gives  occasionally  a  sanguine  tinge 
to  the  ancient  chronicles.  It  seems  also  to  have  had 
its  share  in  the  more  sacred  festivities  of  the  olden 
time,  as  we  gather  from  one  of  the  ballads  preserved 
in  Percy's  Reliques :  — 

"  In  Carlisle  dwelt  King  Arthur, 

A  prince  of  passing  might, 
And  there  maintained  his  '  Table  Round,' 

Begirt  by  many  a  knight, 
And  there  he  kept  his  Christmas, 

With  mirth  and  great  delight." 

Our  first  walk  was  to  the  Castle.  A  most  glorious 
sunset  saw  we  from  its  heights.  On  its  parapets, 
where  the  cannon  are  mounted,  is  a  large,  fine  old  dial, 
with  the  following  forcible  inscription  in  letters  of  gold : 


THE    CASTLE.  69 

"  Hours,  or  ages,  are  nothing  to  the  Eternal  ;  but  as 
for  man,  they  fix  his  changeless  doom  for  weal  or  for 
woe." 

This  structure,  which  we  spent  a  considerable  time  in 
examining,  claims  Edward  the  Third  as  its  founder.  It 
gave  shelter,  for  a  night,  to  his  unfortunate  grandson, 
Kiclmrd  the  Second,  while  on  his  humiliating  journey  in 
the  custody  of  his  usurping  and  vindictive  cousin,  after 
wards  Henry  the  Fourth.  Here,  also,  Fergus  Maclvor 
endured  imprisonment,  and  was  led  forth  to  execution. 
They  profess  to  show  the  print  of  his  hand,  in  stone  of 
rather  a  soft  texture,  which  lines  the  walls  of  his  cell. 

Other  mournful  recollections  of  the  "  sighing  of  the 
prisoner,"  connect  this  edifice  with  Mary  of  Scotland. 
We  visited  the  remains  of  the  turret  where  she  was 
immured,  when,  after  the  disastrous  battle  of  Langside, 
she  threw  herself  on  the  generosity  of  her  royal  cousin 
of  England.  In  a  secluded  promenade,  skirted  by  a 
moat,  she  was  permitted  to  take  daily  exercise,  under 
the  guardianship  of  sentinels.  Two  ash  trees  marked 
its  extreme  limit.  They  were  said  to  have  been 
planted  by  her  own  hand.  They  attained  such  a  size, 
as  to  rank  among  the  largest  trees  of  Cumberland, 
and  the  antiquarian  cannot  but  regret  that  they  should 
have  been  cut  down  for  some  architectural  improve 
ment.  A  bouquet  of  carnations,  from  this  queenly  tread 
mill,  was  presented  us,  which  retained  much  of  their 
freshness  and  fragrance  even  after  we  reached  the 
realm  of  which  she  once  wore  the  troubled  crown. 
The  guide  from  whom  we  obtained  them,  pointed 


70  CATHEDRAL    SERVICE. 

out  to  us  a  narrow-mouthed  well,  ninety  feet  in  depth, 
which  he  said,  "  without  doubt,  was  dug  by  His  Majes 
ty,  Julius  Caesar." 

It  was  at  Carlisle  that  we  attended,  for  the  first  time, 
the  Sabbath  cathedral  service  of  the  Mother-Land. 
To  us,  it  was  solemn  and  impressive.  An  anthem, 
from  Psalm  55th,  "  Hear  my  prayer,"  was  most  toucli- 
ingly  performed  by  two  chanting  boys,  with  the  rich 
tones  of  a  majestic  organ.  The  interest  with  which  we 
viewed  the  congregation,  was  heightened  by  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  large  number  of  neatly  dressed,  and 
decorously  behaved  charity-children,  and  also,  to  us, 
the  novel  circumstance  of  a  military  feature  in  the 
audience.  A  garrison  from  the  Castle,  of  three  hun 
dred  soldiers,  entered  in  full  uniform,  with  subdued 
martial  music,  and  joined  reverently  in  the  service. 
Methought,  Mars  was  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  Christ,  as 
the  responses  burst  forth  clearly  from  the  lips  of  this 
portion  of  the  "  church  militant."  The  Dean  gave  a 
good  discourse  from  that  comprehensive  passage  of  St. 
Peter,  "  Through  sanctification  of  the  Spirit,  with  obe 
dience,  and  sprinkling  of  the  blood  of  Christ." 


How  graceful,  'mid  their  garniture  of  green, 
Gleam  out  thy  roofs,  Carlisle  !  —  thy  castled  towers 
Symmetrical,  —  thy  fair  Cathedral  dome 
In  solitary  majesty,  —  thy  bridge 
Spanning  the  Eden,  where  the  angler  sits 
Patient  so  long,  and  seems  to  count  the  sheep, 


CARLISLE.  71 

Sprinkled  like  snow-flakes  o'er  luxuriant  vales. 

—  Lo  !  Time  doth  hang  upon  thy  misty  heights 

Legends  of  warlike  and  of  festal  deeds, 

Symbols  of  old  renown,  —  the  fearful  beak 

Of  Rome's  victorious  eagle,  —  Pictish  spear,  — 

King  Arthur's  wassail  cup, —  the  battle-axe 

Of  the  fierce  Danish  sea-kings,  —  Highland  targe, 

And  Scottish  claymore,  in  confusion  blent 

With  England's  cloth-yard  arrow.     Yea,  each  helm 

And  dinted  cuirass,  hath  its  stirring  tale: 

Yet  there  thou  sitt'st  as  meekly  innocent 

As  though  thine  eager  lip  had  never  quaff 'd 

Hot  streams  of  kindred  blood. 

Art  pleased  to  hear 

No  more  of  border  feuds  ?     Art  glad  to  cast 
Thy  frontier  annal,  with  its  crimson  stains, 
Down  at  the  feet  of  the  united  realms, 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  survey  their  joint  domain  ? 
So  may  the  God  of  love  bless  them  and  thee. 

Sweet  flowers  thou  pressest  in  our  stranger-hands, 
Rich,  red  carnations,  from  "  Queen  Mary's  walk :  " 
But  unto  her  forsaken  heart,  thy  gifts 
Were  only  bitter  weeds,  and  rankling  thorns, 
Such  as  the  captive  plucks.     Methinks  we  hear 
Her  mournful  weeping,  as  she  turns  away. 
With  none  to  pity. 

Many  a  brilliant  change 

In  those  delightful  landscapes,  cheered  the  eye, 
As  onward  o'er  the  fringed  banks  of  Clyde 


72  SCOTLAND. 

We  sought  the  barren  hills  and  crystal  streams 
Of  Caledonia ;  poor,  perchance,  in  gold, 
But  rich  in  deathless  song. 

Swift  rolled  the  Esk, 

Where  the  impetuous  young  Lord  Lochinvar 
Stayed  not  for  ford,  but  plunging,  braved  its  wrath, 
And  rushed  in  conquering  arrogance  to  claim 
The  bride  of  Netherby. 

Up  rose  in  light, 

Branksom's  lyre-honor'd  tower ;  the  pleasant  homes 
Of  Teviotdale,  fast  by  the  River  Tweed ; 
And  then,  like  throned  queen,  the  attic  robes 
Of  beautiful  Edina. 

Yet,  we  spake 

Oft-times  of  thee,  Carlisle  !  for  thy  sweet  smile, 
And  the  deep  cadence  of  thy  chanted  hymn 
That  taught  our  Sabbath  of  the  choir  of  heaven, 
Went  with  us,  as  we  journeyed.     So  we  said 
Once  more,  "  farewell !  and  peace  be  with  thee  still." 


HOLYROOD. 


ON  our  arrival  at  Edinburgh,  we  found  accommo 
dations,  successively,  at  two  of  the  principal  hotels, 
which  had  been  commended  to  us  by  English  friends. 
But  we  were  eventually  induced  to  try  the  plan  of 
taking  lodgings.  These  we  were  so  fortunate  as  to 
obtain  in  a]] delightful  house  on  Prince's  Street,  oppo 
site  the  Castle,  owned  by  a  pleasant  lady,  recently  left 
a  widow,  and  willing  thus  to  aid  a  restricted  income. 
Here  we  had,  on  the  second  story,  what  the  Scotch 
call  a  "whole  flat,"  comprising  parlor,  dining-room, 
and  three  neatly  furnished  dormitories.  Every  even 
ing  we  gave  a  written  bill  of  fare  for  the  next  day,  to 
our  kind  hostess,  who  was  faithful  in  carrying  out  our 
wishes  in  the  minutest  particular.  Seated  around  our 
comfortable  board,  and  enjoying  quiet  conversation, 
correspondence  or  reading,  when  wearied  with  out-door 
explorations,  we  were  able  to  cherish  more  of  the  home- 
feeling  than  is  wont  to  be  found  in  a  land  of  strangers. 
It  was  also  gratifying  to  perceive  that  our  domestic 
arrangements  were  remarkably  consistent  with  econ 
omy,  and  entirely  satisfactory  to  our  attentive  and 


74  KING    DAVID    THE    FIRST. 

gentle-mannered  landlady,  in  whose  welfare  we  felt 
interest  and  sympathy. 

One  of  the  advantages  of  our  location  was  its  prox 
imity  to  Holyrood,  giving  us  facilities  for  frequently 
visiting  its  environs.  That  edifice,  whose  aspect  is  far 
from  imposing,  was  originally  an  abbey,  founded  in 
1128,  by  David  the  First,  of  Scotland.  The  ancient 
legend  says,  that  while  hunting,  and  separated  from  his 
train,  he  was  attacked  and  overthrown  by  a  wild  stag, 
and  rescued  from  impending  death  by  the  sudden  ap 
pearance  of  an  arm  from  a  dark  cloud,  holding  a 
luminous  cross,  which  so  frightened  the  furious  animal, 
that  he  fled  away  into  the  depths  of  the  forest.  The 
monarch  determined  to  erect  a  religious  house  on  the 
very  spot  of  his  deliverance,  and  to  call  it  Holyrood, 
or  Holy  Cross.  It  might  be  proper  to  supply  a  strong 
reason  for  the  selection  of  so  obscure  a  site,  but  scarcely 
necessary  to  invent  a  miracle  for  so  common  an  occur 
rence  as  the  erection  of  an  ecclesiastical  edifice  by 
king  David,  since  it  is  well  known  that  fifteen  owe  their 
origin  to  him  ;  among  which  are  the  fine  abbeys  of 
Melrose  and  Dryburgh,  Kelso  and  Jedburgh,  with  the 
cathedrals  of  Glasgow  and  Aberdeen.  The  gratitude 
of  the  monastic  orders,  whom  he  patronized,  conferred 
on  him  the  title  of  Saint ;  but  the  heavy  expenses  thus 
incurred,  imposed  many  burdens'  upon  his  realm,  and 
caused  James  the  Sixth,  not  inappositely,  to  style  him 
"  a  saur  saint  to  the  crown." 

The  first  view  of  Holyrood  is  in  strong  contrast  with 
the  splendid  buildings  and  classic  columns  of  the  Cal- 


CHAPEL    AND    VAULT.  75 

ton-Hill.  After  admiring  the  monuments  of  Dugald 
Stewart,  and  Nelson,  and  the  fine  edifice  for  the  High 
School,  you  look  down  at  the  extremity  of  the  Canon- 
gate  upon  the  old  palace,  that,  seated  at  the  foot  of 
Suli-bury  Crag,  nurses,  in  comparative  desolation,  the 
memories  of  the  past.  Its  chapel,  floored  with  tomb 
stones,  and  open  to  the  winds  of  heaven,  admonishes 
human  power  and  pride  of  their  alliance  with  vanity. 

Through  an  iron  grate  we  saw,  in  a  damp,  miserable 
vault,  the  bones  of  some  of  the  kings  of  Scotland  ; 
among  them  those  of  Henry  Darnley,  without  even  the 
covering  of  that  "  little  charity  of  earth,"  which  the 
homeless  beggar  finds.  In  another  part  of  the  royal 
chapel,  unmarked  by  any  inscription,  are  the  remains  of 
the  lovely  young  Queen  Magdalen,  daughter  of  Francis 
the  First  of  France,  who  survived  but  a  short  time  her 
marriage  with  James  the  Fifth.  In  the  same  vicinity, 
sleep  two  infant  princes,  by  the  name  of  Arthur  ;  one  the 
son  of  him  who  fell  at  Flodden  Field,  the  other  a  brother 
of  Mary  of  Scotland.  Scarcely  a  single  monument, 
deserving  of  notice  as  a  work  of  art,  is  to  be  found  at 
Holy  rood,  except  that  of  Viscount  Bellhaven,  a  privy- 
councillor  of  Charles  the  First,  who  died  in  1639.  He 
is  commemorated  by  a  statue  of  Parian  marble,  which 
is  in  singular  contrast  with  the  rough  black  walls  of 
the  ruinous  tower,  where  it  is  placed.  It  has  a  diffuse 
and  elaborate  inscription,  setting  forth  that  "  Nature 
supplied  his  mind  by  wisdom,  for  what  was  wanting  in 
his  education  ;  that  he  would  easily  get  angry,  and  as 
easily,  even  while  speaking,  grow  calm  ;  and  that  he 


76  RIZZIO. 

enjoyed  the  sweetest  society  in  his  only  wife,  Nicholas 
Murray,  daughter  of  the  Baron  of  Abercairney,  who 
died  in  eighteen  months  after  her  marriage." 

The  grave  of  Rizzio  is  pointed  out  under  one  of  the 
passages  to  a  piazza,  covered  with  a  flat  stone.  Over 
the  mantel-piece  of  the  narrow  closet,  where  from  his 
last  fatal  supper  he  was  torn  forth  by  the  conspirators, 
is  a  portrait  said  to  be  of  him.  Its  authenticity  is 
exceedingly  doubtful ;  yet  it  has  been  honored  by  one 
of  the  beautiful  effusions  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  written  dur 
ing  her  visit  to  Holyrood,  in  1829. 

"  They  haunt  me  still,  those  calm,  pure,  holy  eyes  ! 
Their  piercing  sweetness  wanders  through  my  dreams ; 
The  soul  of  music,  that  within  them  lies, 
Comes  o'er  my  soul  in  soft  and  sudden  gleams  ; 
Life,  spirit,  life  immortal  and  divine 
Is  there,  and  yet  how  dark  a  death  was  thine." 

In  the  gallery  at  Holyrood,  which  is  150  feet  long, 
and  plain  even  to  meanness,  are  the  portraits  of  one 
hundred  and  eleven  Scottish  monarchs,  the  greater  part 
of  which  must,  of  course,  be  creations  of  fancy.  Some 
of  the  more  distinguished  chieftains  are  interspersed 
with  them.  In  the  line  of  the  Stuarts,  we  remarked 
the  smallness  and  delicacy  of  the  hands,  which  histori 
ans  have  mentioned  as  a  marked  feature  of  that  unfor 
tunate  house.  The  only  female  among  this  formidable 
assemblage  of  crowned  heads,  is  Mary  of  Scotland. 
This,  her  ancestral  palace,  teems  with  her  relics ;  and, 
however  questionable  is  the  identity  of  some  of  them, 


REIGN    OF    QUI.KN    MARY.  77 

they  are  usually  examined  with  interest  by  visitants. 
The  antique  cicerone,  to  whom  this  department  apper 
tained,  and  whose  voice  had  grown  hoarse  and  hollow 
by  painful  recitations  in  these  damp  apartments,  still 
threw  herself  into  an  oratorical  attitude,  and  bestowed 
an  extra  emphasis,  when  any  favorite  article  was  to  be 
exhibited,  such  as  "  Queen  Mainfs  work-box  !  Queen 
Mairy's  candelabra!"  The  latter  utensil,  it  seems, 
she  brought  with  her  from  France.  Probably  some 
tender  associations,  known  only  to  herself,  clustered 
around  it ;  for  she  was  observed  often  to  fix  her  eyes 
mournfully  upon  it,  as  a  relic  of  happier  days.  In  her 
apartments,  we  were  shown  the  stone  on  which  she 
knelt  at  her  coronation  ;  the  embroidered  double  chair, 
or  throne,  on  which  she  and  Darnley  sat  after  their 
marriage ;  the  state-bed,  ready  to  perish,  and  despoiled 
of  many  a  mouldering  fragment  by  antiquarian  vorac 
ity  ;  her  dressing-case,  marvellously  destitute  of  neces 
sary  materials  ;  and  the  round,  flat  basket,  in  which 
the  first  suit  of  clothes  for  her  only  infant  were  laid. 
These  articles,  and  many  others  of  a  similar  nature, 
brought  her  palpably  before  us,  and  awakened  our 
sympathies.  There  was  a  rudeness,  an  absolute  want 
of  comfort  about  all  her  appointments,  which  touched  us 
with  pity,  and  led  us  back  to  the  turbulent  and  half 
civilized  men  by  whom  she  was  surrounded,  and  from 
whom  she  had  little  reason  to  expect  forbearance  as 
a  woman,  or  obedience  as  a  queen.  The  closet,  to 
which  we  were  shown  the  secret  staircase  where  the 
assassins  entered,  seems  scarcely  of  sufficient  dimen- 


78  RELIQUES    OF    QUEEN    MARY. 

sions  to  allow  the  persons,  who  are  said  to  have  been 
assembled  there,  the  simplest  accommodations  for  a 
repast ;  especially  if  Darnley  was  of  so  gigantic  pro 
portions  as  the  armor,  still  preserved  there  and  asserted 
to  be  his,  testifies.  Poor  Mary,  notwithstanding  her 
errors,  and  the  mistakes  into  which  she  was  driven  by 
the  fierce  spirit  of  her  evil  times,  is  now  remembered 
throughout  her  realm,  with  a  sympathy  and  warmth  of 
appreciation,  which  failed  to  cheer  her  sufferings  dur 
ing  life.  Almost  constantly  you  meet  with  memorials 
of  her.  In  the  Castle  of  Edinburgh,  you  have  pointed 
out  to  you  a  miserable,  dark  room,  about  eight  feet 
square,  where  her  son,  James  the  Sixth,  was  born  ;  in 
the  Parthenon,  among  the  gatherings  of  the  Antiqua 
rian  Society,  you  are  shown  the  cup  from  which  she 
used  to  feed  her  infant  prince,  and  the  long  white  kid 
gloves,  strongly  embroidered  with  black,  which  she  was 
said  to  have  worn  upon  the  scaffold ;  and  in  the  dining- 
hall  at  Abbotsford,  you  start  at  a  most  distressing  por 
trait  of  her,  her  head  in  a  charger,  taken  the  day  after 
her  execution.  Near  the  Cathedral  of  Peterborough, 
where  her  body  was  interred,  the  following  striking 
inscription  was  once  put  up  in  Latin.  It  was  almost 
immediately  removed,  and  the  writer  never  discov 
ered,  and  we  are  indebted  to  Camden  for  its  preserva 
tion. 

"  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  daughter  of  a  king,  kins 
woman  and  next  heir  to  the  Queen  of  England,  adorned 
with  royal  virtues  and  a  noble  spirit,  having  often,  but 
in  vain,  implored  to  have  the  rights  of  a  prince  done 


CHAPEL    OF    HOLYROOD.  79 

unto  her,  is,  by  a  barbarous  and  tyrannical  cruelty,  cut 
off.  And  by  one  and  the  same  infamous  judgment, 
both  Mary  of  Scotland  is  punished  with  death,  and  all 
kings  now  living  are  made  liable  to  the  same.  A 
strange  and  uncouth  kind  of  grave  is  this,  wherein  the 
living  are  included  with  the  dead  ;  for  we  know  that  with 
her  ashes  the  majesty  of  all  kings  and  princes  lie  here 
depressed  and  violated.  But  because  this  regal  secret 
doth  admonish  all  kings  of  their  duty,  Traveller !  I 
shall  say  no  more." 

In  the  modern  portion  of  Holyrood  is  a  pleasant  suite 
of  apartments,  which  were  occupied  by  Charles  the 
Tenth  of  France,  when  he  found  refuge  in  Scotland 
from  his  misfortunes  at  home.  They  have  ornamented 
ceilings,  and  are  hung  with  tapestry. 

The  Duke  of  Hamilton,  who  is  keeper  of  the  palace, 
has  apartments  there,  as  has  also  the  Marquis  of 
Breadalbane.  Those  of  the  latter  are  decorated  with 
a  large  collection  of  family  portraits,  among  which  is  a 
fine  one,  by  Vandyke,  of  Lady  Isabella  Rich,  holding  a 
lute,  on  which  instrument,  we  are  informed  by  the  poet 
Waller,  she  had  attained  great  excellence. 

AVe  found  ourselves  attracted  to  make  repeated  visits 
to  Ilolyrood,  and  never  on  those  occasions  omitted  its 
roofless  chapel,  so  rich  in  recollections.  It  required, 
however,  a  strong  effort  of  imagination  to  array  it  in  the 
royal  splendor  with  which  the  nuptials  of  Queen  Mary 
were  there  solemnized ;  and,  seventy  years  afterwards, 
the  coronation  of  her  grandson,  Charles  the  First.  The 
processions,  the  ringing  of  bells,  the  gay  tapestry 


80  CORONATION    OF    CHARLES    THE  FIRST. 

streaming  from  the  windows  of  the  city ;  the  rich  cos 
tumes  of  the  barons,  bishops,  and  other  nobility ;  the 
king,  in  his  robes  of  crimson  velvet,  attending  devoutly 
to  the  sacred  services  of  the  day,  receiving  the  oaths  of 
allegiance,  or  scattering,  through  his  almoner,  broad 
gold  pieces  among  the  people,  are  detailed  with  minute 
ness  and  delight  by  the  Scottish  chroniclers  of  that 
period.  "  Because  this  was  the  most  glorious  and 
magnifique  coronatione  that  ever  was  seine  in  this 
kingdom,"  says  Sir  James  Balfour,  "  and  the  first 
king  of  Greate  Britain  that  ever  was  crowned  in  Scot 
land,  to  behold  these  triumphs  and  ceremonies,  many 
strangers  of  grate  quality  resorted  hither  from  divers 
countries." 

Who  can  muse  at  Holyrood  without  retracing  the 
disastrous  fortunes  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  whose  images 
seem  to  glide  from  among  the  ruined  arches,  where 
they  once  held  dominion.  James  the  First  was  a  pris 
oner  through  the  whole  of  his  early  life,  and  died  under 
the  assassin's  steel.  James  the  Second  was  destroyed 
by  the  bursting  of  one  of  his  own  cannon  at  the  siege 
of  Roxburgh.  James  the  Third  was  defeated  in  battle 
by  rebels  headed  by  his  own  son,  and  afterwards  assas 
sinated.  James  the  Fourth  fell,  with  the  flower  of  his 
army,  at  Flodden  Field,  and  failed  even  of  the  rites  of 
sepulture.  James  the  Fifth  died  of  grief,  in  the  prime 
of  life,  at  the  moment  of  the  birth  of  his  daughter,  who, 
after  twenty  years  of  imprisonment  in  England,  was 
eondemned  to  the  scaffold.  James  the  First  of  Eng 
land,  though  apparently  more  fortunate  than  his  ances- 


HOUSE    OF    STUART.  81 

tors,  was  menaced  by  conspiracy,  suffered  the  loss  of 
his  eldest  son,  and  saw  his  daughter  a  crownless  queen. 
Charles  the  First  had  his  head  struck  off  in  front  of  his 
own  palace.  Charles  the  Second  was  compelled  to  fly 
from  his  country,  and  after  twelve  years'  banishment 
returned  to  an  inglorious  reign.  James  the  Second 
abdicated  his  throne,  lost  three  kingdoms,  died  an  exile, 
and  was  the  last  of  his  race  who  inhabited  the  palace 
of  Holyrood. 


Old  Holyrood  !  Edina's  pride, 

Where  erst,  in  regal  state  arrayed, 

The  mitred  abbots  told  their  beads, 

And  chanted  'neath  thy  hallowed  shade ; 

And  nobles,  in  thy  palace  courts, 
Revel,  and  dance,  and  pageant  led, 

And  trump  to  tilt  and  tourney  called, 
And  royal  hands  the  banquet  spread  ; 

A  lingering  beauty  still  is  thine, 

Though  age  on  age  have  o'er  thee  rolled, 
Since  good  king  David  reared  thy  walls, 

With  turrets  proud  and  tracery  bold. 

And  still  the  Norman's  pointed  arch 

Its  interlacing  blends  sublime 
With  Gothic  columns'  clustered  strength, 

Where  foliage  starts  and  roses  climb. 
6 


82  HOLYROOD. 

High  o'er  thy  head  rude  Arthur's  Seat 
And  Salisbury  Crag  in  ledges  rise, 

Where  love  the  hurtling  winds  to  shriek 
Wild  chorus  to  the  wintry  skies. 

The  roofless  chapel,  stained  with  years, 
And  paved  with  tombstones  damp  and  low, 

Yon  gloomy  vault,  whose  grated  doors 
The  bones  of  prince  and  chieftain  show 

Unburied,  while  from  pictured  hall, 
In  armor  decked,  or  antique  crown, 

A  strange  interminable  line 

Of  Scotia's  kings  look  grimly  down, 

Yet  with  bold  touch  hath  Fancy  wrought, 
And  ranged  her  airy  region  wide, 

The  features  and  the  form  to  give, 

Where  History  scarce  a  name  supplied. 

Me  thinks  o'er  every  mouldering  wall, 
Around  each  arch  and  buttress  twine, 

Like  rustling  banner's  dreamy  fold, 
The  chequered  fate  of  Stuart's  line. 

First  of  that  race,  whose  early  years 
Dragged  slowly  on  in  captive's  cell ; 

And  he,  who  at  the  cannon's  mouth 
In  the  dire  siege  of  Roxburgh  fell ; 


HOLYROOD.  83 

And  he  who  felt  the  assassin's  steel, 
Though  erst  with  sharper  anguish  tried 

From  rebel  son  and  traitor  chief ;  — 
Before  my  sight  they  seem  to  glide. 

He,  too,  at  Flodden  Field  who  died, 

The  belt  of  iron  round  his  breast, 
Held  his  last  frantic  orgies  here, 

And  rushed  to  battle's  dreamless  rest. 

And  Margaret's  son,  and  Mary's  sire, 
Methinks  I  see  him,  wrapped  in  gloom, 

Glance  coldly  on  the  babe,  whose  birth 
Just  marked  the  portal  of  his  tomb  : 

"An  heir  to  Scotia's  throne,  Oh  king ! 

A  daughter  fair  !  "  the  herald  said  ;  — 
No  smile  he  gave,  no  hand  he  raised, 

They  touched  his  forehead  —  he  was  dead. 

And  he,  the  anointing  oil  who  bore 

Of  Albion  on  his  princely  head, 
Yet  basely,  near  his  palace-door, 

Upon  the  sable  scaffold  bled, 

In  youthful  days,  when  skies  were  bright, 
And  nought  the  coming  doom  betrayed, 

The  crown  upon  his  temples  placed 
In  yonder  chapel's  sacred  shade. 


84  HOLYROOD. 

But  most,  of  Scotia's  fairest  flower 
Old  Holyrood  with  mournful  grace 

Doth  every  withered  petal  hoard, 
And  dwell  on  each  recorded  trace. 

I  've  stood  upon  the  castled  height, 
Where  green  Carlisle  its  turrets  rears, 

And  mused  on  Mary's  grated  cell, 
Her  smitten  hopes,  her  captive  tears, 

When  from  Lochleven's  dreary  fosse, 

From  Langside's  transient  gleam  of  bliss, 

She  threw  herself  on  queenly  faith, 
On  kindred  blood,  —  for  this  !  for  this  ! 

I  've  marked  along  the  stagnant  moat, 
Her  stinted  walk  mid  soldiers  grim, 

Or,  listening,  caught  the  burst  of  woe 
That  mingled  with  her  vesper-hymn  ; 

Or  'neath  the  shades  of  Fotheringay, 

In  vision  seen  the  faded  eye, 
The  step  subdued,  the  prayer  devout, 

The  sentenced  victim  led  to  die. 

But  simpler  relics,  fond  and  few, 
That  in  this  palace-chamber  lie, 

Of  woman's  lot,  and  woman's  care, 
Touch  tenderer  chords  of  sympathy  ; 


HOLTROOD.  85 

The  arras,  with  its  storied  lore, 

By  her  own  busy  needle  wrought, 
The  couch,  where  oft  her  throbbing  brow 

For  sweet  oblivion  vainly  sought  ; 

The  basket,  once  with  infant  robes 

So  rich,  her  own  serene  employ, 
While  o'er  each  lovely  feature  glowed 

A  mother's  yet  untasted  joy  ; 

The  candelabra's  fretted  shaft, 

Beside  whose  flickering  midnight  flame 

In  sad  communion  still  she  bent 
With  genial  France,  from  whence  it  came ; 

Those  sunny  skies,  those  hearts  refined, 
The  wreaths  that  Love  around  her  threw, 

The  homage  of  a  kneeling  realm, 
The  misery  of  her  last  adieu  ! 

Ah  !  were  her  errors  all  resolved 

To  their  first  elemental  fount, 
Must  not  her  dark  and  evil  times 

Share  deeply  in  the  dire  amount  ? 

We  may  not  say  ;  we  only  know 

Their  record  is  with  One  on  high, 
Who  ne'er  the  unuttered  motive  scans 

With  partial  or  vindictive  eye. 


86  »  HOLYEOOD.  .. 

Yon  secret  stairs,  yon  closet  nook, 

The  swords  that  through  the  arras  gleam, 

Rude  Darnley's  ill-dissembled  joy, 

Lost  Rizzio's  shrill,  despairing  scream. 

The  chapel,  decked  for  marriage  rite, 
The  royal  bride,  with  flushing  cheek, 

Triumphant  Bothwell's  hateful  glance, 
Alas !  alas  !  what  words  they  speak  ! 

Dread  gift  of  Beauty  !  who  can  tell 
The  ills  and  perils  round  thee  strown, 

When  warm  affections  fire  the  heart, 

And  Fortune  gives  the  dangerous  throne, 

And  Power's  intoxicating  cup, 

And  Flattery's  wile  the  conscience  tame, 
And  strong  Temptation  spreads  its  snare. 

And  scowling  Hatred  wakes  to  blame  ? 

Yet,  since  each  trembling  shade  of  guilt 
None,  save  the  eternal  Judge,  may  know, 

O'er  erring  hearts,  by  misery  crushed, 
Let  pity's  softening  tear-drop  flow. 


IIAWTHORNDEN. 


THIS  classic  retreat  is  the  site  of  a  modern  edifice, 
occupied,  at  the  time  we  visited  it,  by  Sir  Francis 
Drummond  Walker.  The  rock  on  which  the  rear  wall 
of  the  mansion  is  built,  descends  abruptly  more  than  a 
hundred  feet  to  an  abyss,  or  narrow  passage,  where  the 
Esk  forces  its  way.  Mingled  with  the  refinements  of 
a  modern  residence  are  the  broken  arches  and  moss- 
grown  relics  of  the  ancient  structure,  rudely  but  strongly 
fortified. 

Cut  in  the  wall  of  the  caverns  to  which  you  descend, 
are  a  number  of  compartments  in  the  honeycomb  form, 
which  bear  the  name  of  "  King  Robert  Bruce's  Libra 
ry."  We  had  heard  of  the  lesson  he  received  from  a 
spider ;  but  did  not  know  before  that  he  had  any  affin 
ity  for  the  bee.  His  warrior's  life  probably  made  him 
more  familiar  with  the  use  of  the  sting,  than  the  honey 
of  sweet  meditation.  His  formidable  sword  was  ex 
hibited  at  the  entrance  of  this  curious  hive. 

Amid  that  labyrinth  of  subterranean  dens,  the  Cove 
nanters,  in  the  days  of  u  Old  Mortality,"  sought  refuge. 
Thence,  also,  during  the  contests  of  Bruce  and  Baliol, 


CO  DRUMMOND. 

issued  Sir  Alexander  Ramsay,  performing  memorable 
exploits. 

But  the  principal  charm  of  this  remarkable  scenery 
is  its  association  with  the  poet  Drummond,  its  early 
master.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  composing  his  verses 
in  a  romantic  nook,  scooped  out  of  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
hidden  by  hawthorn,  and  not  very  accessible  to  the  foot 
of  the  uninitiated.  Here  he  secured  that  prize,  so 
dear  to  the  children  of  the  muse,  —  freedom  from  the 
fear  of  interruption. 

Drummond  was  a  rare  combination  of  the  poet 
and  the  country  gentleman.  With  him,  "  high-erected 
thoughts,  seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy,"  —  to  borrow  Sir 
Philip  Sydney's  beautiful  words,  —  did  not  overpower 
the  practical  part  of  his  nature,  or  the  amiable  sensibil 
ities  of  domestic  life.  One  of  the  first  poems  that  gave 
him  celebrity  was  a  feeling  effusion  on  the  death  of 
the  young  prince  Henry,  son  of  that  Scottish  James 
who  ascended  the  English  throne  after  the  death  of 
Elizabeth.  The  music  of  his  sonnets  seemed  to  linger 
amid  his  favorite  shades,  and  we  could  almost  fancy 
we  heard  him  saying,  — 

"I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  Time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought ; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muses'  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite,  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few,  or  none  are  sought; 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  vain  praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty's  like  the  purple  flower, 
Which  finds  its  birth  and  death  in  one  brief  waning  hour." 


DRUMMOND.  89 

At  this  sylvan  retreat  he  entertained  King  Charles 
First,  on  his  visit  to  Edinburgh.  Here,  also,  many 
years  afterwards,  he  received  a  different  guest,  —  the 
renowned  dramatist,  Ben  Johnson,  who  performed  a 
pedestrian  journey  from  London,  to  pass  a  few  weeks 
under  his  roof.  Their  first  interview  was  beneath  the 
spreading  branches  of  a  venerable  oak.  Drummond 
advancing  to  meet  him,  exclaimed,  with  the  warmth  of 
Scottish  hospitality, 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  royal  Ben  :" 
to  which  the  poet-laureate  promptly  replied,  — 
"  Thank  ye,  thank  ye,  Hawthornden." 

This  characteristic  greeting  and  rejoinder,  are  en 
graved  as  the  motto  of  a  ring,  given  me  by  a  loved  and 
now  departed  friend.  What  enhances  its  value,  as 
well  as  its  adaptation,  is  the  insertion,  as  a  signet,  of  a 
highly  polished  Scottish  pebble,  found  at  the  root  of 
this  very  oak  that  sanctioned,  by  its  protecting  shade, 
the  meeting  of  these  choice  spirits.  I  wore  it  on  my 
finger  during  my  visit  to  this  spot.  Methought  it  had 
a  talismanic  power,  and  that  the  spirit  of  the  poet  still 
lingered  among  the  scenery  he  so  much  loved.  Its 
wonderfully  romantic  character,  the  wild  rocks,  the  bold 
river,  the  secluded  walks,  the  glens,  the  caves,  the 
historical  tree,  the  curtaining  ivy,  the  musing  garden- 
seats,  the  eloquent  flowers,  constituted  a  charm  never 
to  be  forgotten. 


90  ROSLIN-CASTLE. 

From  Hawthornden,  we  took  it  upon  us  to  walk  to 
Roslin- Castle,  a  distance  of  more  than  two  miles.  The 
broken  nature  of  the  ground  made  it  a  laborious  effort, 
and  we  arrived,  thoroughly  wearied,  at  the  ancient 
abode  of  the  "  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair."  It  is  a 
fine  ruin,  and  the  chapel  has  an  antiquity  of  more  than 
five  centuries.  The  Earl  of  Roslin  is  at  present  super 
intending  repairs  upon  it ;  and  we  saw  some  exquisite 
carvings,  and  also  designs  from  scripture,  sculptured 
in  stone  of  a  soft  material.  We  were  presented  with 
some  gooseberries,  ripening  in  the  garden,  which  were 
uncommonly  large,  but  destitute  of  the  flavor  which 
our  own  warmer  skies  produce.  But  amid  the  vestiges 
and  legends  of  baronial  splendor,  our  talk  was  still  of 
Hawthornden. 


Though  Scotia  hath  a  thousand  scenes 

To  strike  the  traveller's  eye, 
Clear-bosomed  lakes,  and  leaping  streams, 

And  mountains  bleak  and  high ; 
Yet  when  he  seeks  his  native  clinie 

And  ingle-side  again, 
'T  would  be  a  pity,  had  he  missed 

To  visit  Hawthornden. 

Down,  down,  precipitous  and  rude, 

The  rocks  abruptly  go, 
While  through  their  deep  and  narrow  gorge 

Foams  on  the  Esk  below  ; 


HAWTHORNDEX.  91 

Yet  though  it  plunges  strong  and  bold, 

Its  murmurs  meet  the  ear, 
Like  fretful  childhood's  weak  complaint, 

Half  smothered  in  its  fear. 

There's  plenty,  in  my  own  dear  land, 

Of  cave  and  wild  cascade, 
And  all  my  early  years  were  spent 

In  such  romantic  glade  ; 
And  I  could  featly  climb  the  cliff, 

Or  forest  roam  and  fen  ; 
But  I  've  been  puzzled  here  among 

These  rocks  of  Hawthornden. 

Here,  too,  are  labyrinthine  paths 

To  caverns  dark  and  low, 
Wherein,  they  say,  king  Robert  Bruce 

Found  refuge  from  his  foe ; 
And  still  amid  their  relics  old 

His  stalwart  sword  they  keep, 
Which  telleth  tales  of  cloven  heads 

And  gashes,  dire  and  deep  : 

While,  sculptured  in  the  yielding  stone 

Full  many  a  niche  they  show, 
Where  erst  his  library  he  stored, 

(The  guide-boy  told  us  so.) 
Slight  need  had  he  of  books,  I  trow, 

Mid  hordes  of  savage  men, 
And  precious  little  time  to  read 

At  leagured  Hawthornden. 


92  HAWTHORNDEN. 

Loud  pealing  from  those  caverns  drear, 

In  old  disastrous  times, 
The  Covenanter's  nightly  hymn 

Upraised  its  startling  chimes  ; 
Here,  too,  they  stoutly  stood  at  bay, 

Or,  frowning,  sped  along, 
To  meet  the  high-born  cavalier 

In  conflict  fierce  and  strong. 

And  here  's  the  hawthorn-broidered  nook, 

Where  Drummond,  not  in  vain, 
Awaited  his  inspiring  muse, 

And  wooed  her  dulcet  strain. 
And  there  's  the  oak,  beneath  whose  shade 

He  welcomed  tuneful  Ben, 
And  still  the  memory  of  their  words 

Is  nursed  in  Hawthornden. 

Flowers  !  flowers  !  Iiow  thick  and  rich  they  grow, 

Along  the  garden  fair, 
And  sprinkle  on  the  dewy  sod 

Their  gifts  of  fragrance  rare. 
Methinks  from  many  a  heather  bell 

Peeps  forth  some  fairy  lance, 
And  then  a  tiny  foot  protrudes, 

All  ready  for  the  dance  ; 

Methinks  'neath  yon  broad  laurel  leaf 

They  hold  their  revels  light, 
Imprinting  with  a  noiseless  step 

The  mossy  carpet  bright ; 


DAWTHORNDEN.  93 

And  then  their  ringing  laughter  steals 

From  some  sequestered  glen, 
A  fitting  place  for  fays  to  sport 

Is  pleasant  Ilawthornden. 

'T  were  sweet  indeed  to  linger  here, 

And  list  the  streamlet's  sound, 
And  see  poetic  fancies  spring 

Up,  like  the  flowers  around; 
Up,  as  the  creeping  ivy  wreathes 

Its  green  and  gadding  spray, 
And  from  the  gay  and  heartless  crowd 

Steal  evermore  away. 

Yes,  sweet,  if  life  were  but  a  dream, 

And  we,  on  charmed  ground, 
"Were  free  to  choose  at  pleasure's  call, 

And  not  to  judgment  bound. 
But  Duty  spreads  a  different  path, 

And  we  her  call  must  ken  ; 
And  so  a  kind  and  long  farewell 

To  classic  Ilawthornden. 


GLASGOW. 

AN  episode  from  the  Athens  of  Scotland,  to  its  com 
mercial  capital,  furnished  an  agreeable  variety  for 
observation  and  remembrance.  The  intervening  space 
of  forty  miles,  traversed  in  the  stage-coach,  was  not 
particularly  interesting.  It  was  sprinkled,  here  and 
there  with  villages ;  among  which,  the  Kirk  of  Shorts, 
on  the  borders  of  a  bleak  moor,  had  a  dreary  aspect, 
and  Airdrie,  with  its  throng  of  iron  furnaces,  exhibited 
indubitable  marks  of  active  industry. 

Glasgow,  though  not  peculiarly  picturesque,  spreads 
out  on  the  banks  of  the  Clyde  some  finely  variegated 
landscapes.  It  is  the  first  city  in  Scotland,  as  it  regards 
population,  manufacturing  energy,  and  the  spirit  of 
enterprize.  The  wealth  of  its  merchants  allows  them 
to  live  in  a  style  of  princely  liberality,  but  among  the 
lower  classes  are  indications  of  extreme  poverty. 

Its  massy  and  venerable  Cathedral  is  admired  by 
all  strangers,  and  boasts  an  antiquity  of  between  seven 
and  eight  hundred  years.  The  far-famed  Hunterian 
Museum,  and  beautiful  Botanic  Garden,  ought  never 
to  escape  the  notice  of  visitants.  The  public  grounds 


BRITISH    ASSOCIATION.  95 

are  adorned  by  many  imposing  statues.  Among  the 
great  men  thus  distinguished,  are  Nelson,  Pitt,  and 
Wellington ;  Walter  Scott,  on  his  doric  column  of 
eighty  feet ;  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  James  Watt, 
the  improver  of  the  steam-engine  ;  and  Sir  John  Moore, 
whose  elegiac  tribute  by  Wolfe  will  longer  perpetuate 
his  memory  than  the  monumental  marble. 

The  University  of  Glasgow  is  a  noble  institution. 
Its  foundation  was  laid  about  the  middle  of  the  fif 
teenth  century,  by  a  bequest  of  four  acres  of  land,  and 
some  tenements,  by  the  house  of  Hamilton.  Its  spa 
cious  halls  were  rendered  more  interesting  to  us  by 
being  thrown  open  for  the  important  purposes  of  the 
great  "  British  Association  for  the  Advancement  of 
Science,"  whose  annual  meeting  had  been  appointed 
in  this  city.  Hundreds  of  distinguished  men,  from  dif 
ferent  lands,  were  thus  convened,  and  it  was  delightful 
to  hear  them  presenting,  day  after  day,  in  the  respec 
tive  section-rooms,  the  result  of  their  discoveries,  or 
unfolding  their  theories  with  earnest  and  varying  elo 
quence.  Here,  also,  we  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a  gath 
ering  of  the  nobility  of  Scotland,  and  occasionally  heard 
speeches  from  the  Marquis  of  Bredalbane,  the  Presi 
dent  of  the  Society ;  from  Lord  Sandon,  Lord  Mount- 
eagle,  and  others.  The  collateral  interests  of  morality 
and  benevolence  were  not  overlooked  by  science,  in 
this  her  proud  festival ;  and  on  the  subject  of  pauper 
ism,  and  the  best  modes  of  affording  it  permanent 
relief,  Dr.  Chalmers  repeatedly  spoke  with  his  charac 
teristic  fulness  and  power.  He  has  none  of  the  grace- 


96  NORMAL    SEMINARY. 

fulness  of  the  practised  orator,  and  his  countenance 
is  heavy,  until  irradiated  by  his  subject.  Then  mind 
triumphs  over  matter,  and  makes  the  broad  Scotch  a 
pliant  vehicle  to  eloquent  thought.  He  recommended 
the  principle  of  calling  forth  the  energies  of  the  poor 
for  their  own  amelioration,  without  the  application  of 
any  disturbing  force ;  that  they  should  be  assisted  to 
elevate  themselves,  rather  than  be  at  once  paralyzed 
and  degraded,  by  casting  their  households  on  that 
stinted  bounty  whose  root  is  taxation.  To  enforce  his 
theory,  he  went  into  many  details  of  great  minuteness 
and  simplicity,  advising,  among  other  things,  the 
keeping  of  simple  sewing-schools  by  ladies,  two  hours 
of  two  days  in  the  week,  for  the  indigent  female  chil 
dren  in  their  neighborhood  ;  and  frequent  visits,  on  the 
part  of  philanthropists  and  Christians,  to  the  abodes 
of  ignorance  and  vice,  that  the  kindly  sympathies  thus 
mutually  awakened,  might  be  enlisted  in  the  great 
work  of  reformation.  He  was  opposed  by  the  classic 
Alison,  who  admitted  the  beauty  of  his  theory,  but,  by 
arguments  drawn  from  the  fallen  nature  of  man,  and 
the  artificial  structure  of  society,  denied  its  feasibility. 

Among  the  objects  of  interest  in  Glasgow,  to  those 
who  realize  the  importance  of  a  right  education  to  a 
manufacturing  community,  is  the  Normal  Seminary. 
Its  design  is  to  train  teachers,  by  bringing  them  in 
continual  contact  with  the  young  mind,  according  to 
the  requisitions  of  what  would  seem  a  correct  and  effi 
cient  system.  Multitudes  of  children  are  gathered  in 
a  large  building,  judiciously  divided  into  class-rooms, 


NORMAL    INSTITUTION.  97 

galleries,  and  other  accommodations  for  study  and 
exercise,  —  among  which  are  five  play-grounds,  with 
suitable  apparatus.  Here  the  teachers  freely  mingle 
with  their  pupils,  carefully  superintending  their  modes 
of  intercourse  and  the  development  of  their  disposi 
tions  and  affections,  in  what  they  expressively  call  the 
"  uncovered  school-room."  I  was  delighted  with  their 
bright  countenances,  and  the  promptness  and  naivete 
which  marked  the  replies  of  some  of  the  youngest 
classes,  to  the  questions  of  their  teachers.  The  infant 
department  comprises  all  under  six  years  of  age,  and 
the  juvenile,  all  from  six  to  fourteen.  There  is  also 
a  school  of  industry  for  girls  from  ten  years  old  and 
upwards,  where  the  various  uses  of  the  needle,  so 
inseparably  connected  with  domestic  comfort,  are  ad 
mirably  taught.  Moral,  physical,  and  religious  culture 
are  strenuously  combined  with  the  intellectual,  in  the 
system  here  established,  and  a  spirit  of  happiness  and 
order  seemed  to  reign,  unmarked  by  the  severity  of 
discipline.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Cunningham,  formerly  a 
professor  in  one  of  the  Colleges  of  the  United  States, 
is  the  respected  Rector  of  the  Institution ;  and  it  owes 
much  to  the  munificent  patronage  of  David  Stow,  Esq., 
author  of  a  volume  entitled  "  The  Training  System," 
which  contains  an  exposition  of  the  plan  here  pursued, 
and  valuable  hints  on  elementary  education  in  general. 
The  teachers,  who  have  issued  from  this  Normal 
Seminary,  will  have  the  opportunity  of  widely  exem 
plifying  its  system ;  for  they  are  found  not  only  in 
different  counties  of  Scotland,  England,  and  Ireland, 
7 


98  RECOLLECTIONS    OF   A    SERMON. 

but  in  the  West  Indies,  British  America,  and  the  far 
regions  of  Australia.  Who  can  compute  the  benefit 
that  may  result  from  their  labors,  each  in  his  own 
separate  circle  lighting  the  lamp  of  knowledge,  and 
scattering  the  seeds  of  heaven  ?  Or  who  fully  estimate 
the  value  of  those  charities,  which  aid  in  rightly  edu 
cating  the  unformed  mind,  except  that  Being  who  gave 
it  immortality  ? 

Among  the  clergymen  whom  we  heard  in  Glasgow, 
was  Mr.  Robert  Montgomery,  the  poet,  sometimes 
mistaken  for  Mr.  James  Montgomery,  to  whom  he  is 
not  related ;  and  Mr.  McMorland,  who,  on  the  subject 
of  Heaven's  discipline,  and  its  intended  good,  spake 
like  one  who  had  himself  borne  that  test. 

His  text  was  Revelations  3d  and  19th:  —  "  As  many 
as  I  love,  I  rebuke  and  chasten  :  be  zealous,  therefore, 
and  repent." 

Afflictive  dispensations  are  not  always  viewed  in 
accordance  with  their  design.  There  is  an  obduracy 
which  resists  both.  One  of  the  prophets  speaks  of 
those  who  "  set  their  faces  as  a  flint."  But  when  the 
sorrow  that  presses  out  the  bitter  tears  from  the  heart, 
comes  upon  us,  and  we  inquire,  why  is  this  from  God's 
mercy?  behold,  a  letter  in  His  handwriting,  which 
solves  the  doubt,  —  "  As  many  as  I  love  I  rebuke  and 
chasten." 

Christian !  dost  thou  suffer  from  sickness  ?  from 
bereavement  ?  from  domestic  evils  ?  from  disappoint 
ment  of  cherished  hopes  ?  or  from  the  attainment  of 
those  hopes,  and  the  discovery  that  they  are  but  van- 


SOCIETY    IX    GLASGOW.  00 

ity  ?  Canst  thou  not  meet  them  as  proofs  of  sonship,  — 
tests  of  the  filial  spirit,  —  marks  of  the  wisdom  of  a 
Father,  whose  frowns  are  but  the  graver  countenance 
of  love  ? 

Look  into  thy  conduct;  scrutinize  its  motives  ; 
after  the  intended  lesson  ;  ask,  "  What  wilt  thou 
me  to  do?"  "Be  zealous  and  repent;"  for  if 
one  arrow  is  not  enough,  He  hath  a  full  quiver.  If 
one  plague  fails  of  its  effect,  there  are  ten  more.  If 
one  wave  sulficeth  not,  thou  mayest  be  made  to  walk 
"  under  the  cloud,  and  through  the  sea,"  until  thy  soul 
shall  say,  in  utter  prostration,  "  all  thy  billows  have 
gone  over  me,  —  I  have  sinned ;  what  shall  I  do,  O 
Thou  Preserver  of  men  ?  " 

Something  like  the  foregoing,  was  said,  but  it  loses 
the  earnest  manner  of  the  speaker. 

The  society  of  Glasgow  illustrates  the  truest  warmth 
of  Scottish  hospitality.  An  unusual  number  of  distin 
guished  personages  were  gathered  within  its  precincts 
at  this  time.  Among  these,  it  was  pleasant  to  meet 
Dr.  Dick,  the  serene,  scientific  philosopher  ;  Rev.  Dr. 
Duncan,  author  of  "  Philosophy  of  the  Seasons,"  and 
other  works,  and  his  wife  —  the  mother  and  writer 
of  the  Memoir  of  Mary  Lundie  Duncan — beautiful, 
like  her  lamented  daughter,  both  in  person  and  mind. 
Through  the  untiring  attention  of  John  Hotson,  Esq., 
and  his  lady,  we  were  taken  to  see  whatever  was  most 
desirable  in  the  city,  and,  among  others,  to  that  deeply 
interesting  spot,  The  Necropolis.  It  is  situated  on  a 
bold  eminence  of  some  two  hundred  feet,  whose  base  is 


100  JEWS*   BURIAL    GROUND. 

washed  by  a  stream,  and  spanned  by  a  graceful  structure 
appropriately  called  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs."  On  its 
apex  is  a  lofty  column,  surmounted  by  a  colossal  statue 
of  John  Knox,  and  visible  to  a  great  distance.  It  was 
erected  before  the  spot  was  consecrated  to  the  purposes 
of  general  sepulture. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  when  we  walked  there,  and 
the  sun  rested  pleasantly  upon  the  homes  of  the  dead, 
the  turrets  of  the  grand  old  cathedral  in  its  vicinity,  and 
the  noble  city  stretching  itself  beneath.  That  portion 
of  the  cemetery  appropriated  to  the  Jews  was  deeply 
buried  in  shades,  and  had  an  air  of  solemnity  border 
ing  on  desolation.  Over  the  entrance  was  inscribed, 
"  I  heard  a  voice  from  Ramah  ;  lamentation,  mourning, 
and  woe ;  Rachel  weeping  for  her  children,  and  refusing 
to  be  comforted,  because  they  were  not." 

On  the  shaft  of  a  column,  which  is  finished  in  imi 
tation  of  Absalom's  Pillar  in  the  King's  Dale  at  Jerusa 
lem,  are  the  stanzas  from  Byron's  Hebrew  Melodies, 
commencing, 

"  Oh,  weep  for  those,  who  wept  by  Babel's  stream." 

How  adapted  to  the  dispersion  and  sorrow  of  the 
chpsen,  yet  scattered  people,  is  the  close  of  that  pathetic 
effusion : 

"  Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast, 
Where  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest  ? 
The  wild  dove  hath  her  nest,  the  fox  his  cave, 
Mankind  his  country,  Israel  but  a  grave." 


TTTK    NKCROPOLIS    AT    GLASGOW.  101 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  column  is  the  magnifi 
cent  poetry  of  their  own  prophets.  "  There  is  hope 
in  thine  end,  saith  the  Lord,  that  thy  children  shall 
come  again  unto  their  own  border.  How  hath  the  Lord 
covered  the  daughter  of  Zion  with  a  cloud  in  his  anger, 
and  cast  down  from  heaven  to  the  earth  the  beauty  of 
I-ra«  1,  and  remembered  not  his  footstool  in  the  day  of 
his  anger.  But  though  he  cause  grief,  yet  will  he  have 
compassion  according  to  the  multitude  of  his  mercies. 
For  he  doth  not  afflict  willingly,  nor  grieve  the  chil 
dren  of  men." 


Come  o'er  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  some  twilight  hour, 
When  dimly  gleams  the  fair  Cathedral-tower, 
And  lingering  daybeams  faintly  serve  to  show 
The  tombstones  mouldering  round  its  base  below ; 
—  Come  o'er  that  bridge  with  me,  and  musing  think 
What  untold  pangs  have  marked  this  streamlet's  brink, 
What  bitter  tears  distilled  from  hearts  of  woe, 
Since  first  its  arches  spanned  the  flood  below. 
Here  hath  the  mother  from  her  bleeding  breast 
Laid  the  young  darling  of  her  soul  to  rest  ; 
Here  the  lorn  child  resigned  the  parent  stay, 
To  walk,  despairing,  on  its  orphan  way  ; 
Here  the  riven  heart  that  fond  companion  brought 
By  years  cemented  with  its  inmost  thought ; 
Here  the  sad  throng  in  long  procession  crept, 
To  bear  the  sage,  for  whom  a  nation  wept, 


102       THE  NECROPOLIS  AT  GLASGOW. 

Or  deep  in  dust  the  reverend  pastor  lay, 
Whose  pure  example  taught  to  Heaven  the  way. 

Approach  through  winding  paths  yon  terrace  high, 
Whose  statued  column  strikes  the  traveller's  eye, 
Or  rove  from  cell  to  cell,  whose  marble  door 
The  inhospitable  tenants  ope  no  more, 
Or  on  their  tablets  read  the  labored  trace, 
That  asks  remembrance  from  a  dying  race, 
Or  mark  the  flowers,  whose  lips  with  fragrance  flow. 
The  sweetest  tribute  to  the  loved  below. 

Poor  child  of  Judah,  exiled  and  oppressed, 
How  wrapped  in  shades  thy  lowly  spot  of  rest ! 
Type  of  thy  fate,  for  whom  no  sunbeam  falls 
In  peace  and  power,  on  Zion's  sacred  walls  ; 
But  by  strange  streams  thy  silent  harp  is  hung, 
And  captive  numbers  tremble  on  thy  tongue. 
Dark  is  yon  gate,  through  which  thy  mourners  pass 
To  hide  their  idols  'neath  the  matted  grass, 
And  sad  the  dirge,  no  Saviour's  name  that  knows 
To  gild  with  glorious  hope  their  last  repose. 
Oh !  turn  thine  eye  from  Sinai's  summit  red, 
Our  Elder  Sister,  fly  its  thunders  dread  ; 
List  to  the  lay  that  flowed  o'er  Bethlehem's  plain, 
When  star  and  angel  warned  the  shepherd  train  ; 
Thou  lov'st  our  Father's  Book,  —  its  seers  believe, 
To  thy  torn  breast  the  Holy  Cross  receive, 


THE  NECROPOLIS  AT  GLASGOW.       103 

Bind  to  the  frowning  Law  the  Gospel  sweet, 
And  cast  thy  burdens  at  Messiah's  feet. 

But  whether  this  secluded  haunt  we  tread, 

"Where  Caledonia  shrouds  her  cherished  deadr 

Or  where  the  Turk  funereal  cypress  rears, 

Or  the  poor  Cambrian  plants  his  vale  of  tears, 

Or  search  Mount  Auburn's  consecrated  glades,. 

Mid  lakes  and  groves  and  labyrinthine  shades, 

Or  Laurel  Hill,  where  silver  Schuylkill  flows, 

Quiescent  guarding  while  its  guests  repose, 

Or  near  the  Lehigh's  rippling  margin  roam, 

Where  the  Moravian  finds  his  dead  a  home, 

In  lowly  grave,  by  clustering  plants  o'ergrown, 

That  half  conceals  its  horizontal  stone, 

One  voice,  one  language,  speaks  each  sacred  scene, 

Sepulchral  vault,  or  simpler  mound  of  green, 

One    voice,   one   language,   breathes  with  changeless 

power, 
Graved  on  the  stone,  or  trembling  in  the  flower. 

That  voice  is  love  for  the  pale  clay,  that  shrined 
And  fondly  lodged  the  never-dying  mind, 
Toiled  for  its  welfare,  with  its  burdens  bent, 
Wept  o'er  its  woes,  and  at  its  bidding  went, 
Thrilled  at  its  joys,  with  zeal  obeyed  its  will, 
And  'neath  the  stifling  clod  remembers  still. 
Though  on  the  winds  its  severed  atoms  fly, 
It  hoards  the  promise  of  the  Archangel's  cry, 


104  THE   NECROPOLIS   AT    GLASGOW. 

Though  slain,  trusts  on,  though  buried,  hopes  to  rise, 

In  ashes  fans  a  fire  that  never  dies, 

And  with  the  resurrection's  dawning  light 

Shall  burst  its  bonds,  revivify,  unite, 

Rush  to  its  long  lost  friend,  with  stainless  grace, 

And  dwell  forever  in  its  pure  embrace. 


LOCH  LOMOND. 


WHILE  down  the  lake's  translucent"  tide 
With  gently  curving  course  we  glide, 
Its  silver  ripples,  faint  and  few, 
Alternate  blend  with  belts  of  blue, 
As  fleecy  clouds,  on  pinions  white, 
Careering  fleck  the  welkin  bright. 

But  lo  !  Ben  Lomond's  awful  crown 
Through  shrouding  mists  looks  dimly  down  ; 
For  though,  perchance,  his  piercing  eye 
Doth  read  the  secrets  of  the  sky, 
His  haughty  bosom  scorns  to  show 
Those  secrets  to  the  world  below. 

Close-woven  shades,  with  varying  grace, 
And  crag  and  cavern  mark  his  base, 
And  trees,  whose  naked  roots  protrude 
From  bed  of  rock  and  lichens  rude  ; 
And  where,  'mid  dizzier  cliffs  are  seen 
Entangled  thickets  sparsely  green, 
Methinks  I  trace,  in  outline  drear, 
Old  Fingal  with  his  shadowy  spear, 


106  LOCH   LOMOND. 

His  gray  locks  streaming  to  the  gale, 
And  followed  by  his  squadrons  pale. 

Yes,  slender  aid  from  Fancy's  glass 
It  needs,  as  round  these  shores  we  pass, 
Mid  glen  and  thicket  dark,  to  scan 
The  wild  MacGregor's  stormy  clan, 
Emerging,  at  their  chieftain's  call, 
To  foray  or  to  festival  ; 
While  nodding  plumes  and  tartans  bright 
Gleam  wildly  o'er  each  glancing  height. 

But  as  the  spectral  vapors  rolled 
Away  in  vestments  dropped  with  gold, 
The  healthier  face  of  summer  sky, 
With  the  shrill  bagpipe's  melody, 
Recall,  o'er  distant  ocean's  foam, 
The  fondly  treasured  scenes  of  home  ; 
And  thoughts,  on  angel-pinions  driven, 
Drop  in  the  heart  the  seeds  of  heaven, 
Those  winged  seeds,  whose  fruit  sublime 
Decays  not  with  decaying  time. 

The  loving  child,  the  favorite  theme 
Of  morning  hour  or  midnight  dream, 
The  tender  friend  so  lowly  laid 
Mid  our  own  church-yard's  mournful  shade, 
The  smitten  babe,  who  never  more 
Must  sport  around  its  father's  door, 
Return  they  not,  as  phantoms  glide, 
And  silent  seat  them  at  our  side  ? 


LOCH    LOMOND.  107 

Like  Highland  maiden,  sweetly  fair, 
The  snood  and  rosebud  in  her  hair, 
Yon  emerald  isles,  how  calm  they  sleep 
On  the  pure  bosom  of  the  deep  ; 
How  bright  they  throw,  with  waking  eye, 
Their  lone  charms  on  the  passer-by  ; 
The  willow  with  its  drooping  stem, 
The  thistle's  hyacinthine  gem, 
The  feathery  fern,  the  graceful  deer, 
Quick  starting  as  the  strand  we  near, 
While,  with  closed  wing  and  scream  subdued, 
The  Osprays  nurse  their  kingly  brood. 

High  words  of  praise,  the  pulse  that  stir, 
Burst  from  each  joyous  voyager  ; 
And  Scotia's  streams  and  mountains  hoar, 
The  wildness  of  her  sterile  shore, 
Her  broken  caverns,  that  prolong 
The  echoes  of  her  minstrel  song, 
Methinks  might  catch  the  enthusiast-tone, 
That  breathes  amid  these  waters  lone. 
Even  I,  from  fair  Columbia's  shore, 
"Whose  lakes  a  mightier  tribute  pour, 
And  bind  with  everlasting  chain 
The  unshorn  forest  to  the  main ; 
Superior's  surge,  like  ocean  proud, 
That  leaps  to  lave  the  vexing  cloud ; 
Huron,  that  rolls  with  gathering  frown 
A  world  of  waters  darkly  down  : 


108  LOCH    LOMOND. 

And  Erie,  shuddering  on  his  throne 
At  strong  Niagara's  earthquake  tone  ; 
And  bold  Ontario,  charged  to  keep 
The  barrier  'tween  them  and  the  deep, 

Who  oft  in  sounds  of  wrath  and  fear, 
And  dark  with  cloud-wreathed  diadem, 

Interpreteth  to  Ocean's  ear 
Their  language,  and  his  will  to  them ; 
I,  reared  amid  that  western  vale, 
Where  nature  works  on  broader  scale, 
Still  with  admiring  thought  and  free, 
Loch  Lomond,  love  to  gaze  on  thee, 
Reluctant  from  thy  beauties  part, 
And  bless  thee  with  a  stranger's  heart. 


CORRA  LINX. 


Tnou  'RT  beautiful,  sweet  Corra  Linn, 

In  thy  sequestered  place, 
Thy  plunge  on  plunge  raid  wreathing  foam 

Abrupt,  yet  full  of  grace, 
Down,  down,  with  bold  and  breathless  speed, 

Into  thy  rock-sown  bed, 
Bright  sunbeams  on  thy  glancing  robes, 

Rude  crags  above  thy  head. 

Thy  misty  dew  is  on  the  trees, 

And  forth  with  gladness  meet, 
They  reach  the  infant  leaf  and  bud, 

To  take  thy  baptism  sweet. 
No  Clydesdale  spears  are  flashing  high, 

In  foray  wide  and  rude, 
But  Corra's  time-rocked  castle  sleeps 

In  peaceful  solitude. 

What  wouldst  thou  think,  sweet  Corra  Linn, 
Shouldst  thou  Niagara  spy, 


110  CORRA   LINN. 

That  mighty  monarch  of  the  West 

With  terror  in  his  eye  ? 
Thou  'dst  fear  him  on  his  Ocean-throne, 

Like  lion  in  his  lair, 
Meek,  snooded  maiden,  dowered  with  all 

That  father  Clyde  can  spare. 

For  thou  might'st  perch,  like  hooded  bird, 

Upon  his  giant  hand, 
Nor  'mid  his  world  of  waters  wake 

A  ripple  on  his  strand. 
He'd  drink  thee  up,  sweet  Corra  Linn, 

And  thou,  to  crown  the  sip, 
Would  scarce  a  wheen  of  bubbles  make 

Upon  his  monstrous  lip. 

Thy  voice,  that  bids  the  foliage  quake 

Around  thy  crystal  brim, 
Would  quaver,  like  the  cricket's  chirp, 

Mid  his  hoarse  thunder-hymn. 
For,  like  a  thing  that  scorns  the  earth, 

He  rears  his  awful  crest, 
And  takes  the  rainbow  from  the  skies, 

And  folds  it  round  his  breast. 

Thou  'rt  passing  fair,  sweet  Corra  Linn, 
And  he,  who  sees  thee  leap 

Into  the  bosom  of  the  flood, 
Might  o'er  thy  beauty  weep. 


CORRA    LINN.  Ill 

But  lone  Niagara  still  doth  speak 

Of  God,  both  night  and  day, 
And  force  from  <;ach  terrestrial  thought 

The  gazer's  soul  away. 


EDINBURGH. 


THE  beauty  of  Edinburgh,  in  itself,  and  in  its  envi 
rons,  and  the  intellectual  atmosphere  that  enwraps  it, 
are  eulogized  by  all.  We  entered  it  with  high  antici 
pations,  yet  they  were  more  than  realized.  Every  day 
revealed  something  new,  and  supplied  an  unwearied 
strength  to  visit  and  to  admire. 

It  seems,  more  than  other  cities,  to  fasten  on  the  im 
agination,  from  the  nature  of  its  scenery,  the  strange 
events  which  History  has  embodied  here,  and  the  high 
native  genius  which  has  immortalized  all.  The  con 
trast  between  the  Old  and  New  Town  is  most  striking  ; 
one  so  fresh,  bold,  and  beautiful,  the  other  with  its 
dark,  stifling  wynds  and  closes,  its  gloomy,  twelve- 
storied  houses,  quaking  to  their  very  foundations  at 
their  own  loftiness,  the  abode  of  mysterious  legends,  or 
spectral  imagery.  To  pass  from  the  classic  domes  on 
Calton  Hill,  or  the  princely  mansions  in  Moray  Place, 
and  look  into  the  abysses  of  the  Cowgate  and  Canon- 
gate,  just  when  the  earliest  glimmering  lamps  begin  to 
make  visible  their  filth,  poverty,  and  misery,  is  like  a 
sudden  rush  from  the  Elysian  fields  to  the  dominions 
of  Pluto. 


THE    PAST    AXD    PRESENT.  113 

The  past  stands  forth  with  peculiar  distinctness  in 
Edinburgh.  It  has  been  so  well  defined  by  her  his 
torians,  that  it  mingles  with  the  current  of  passing 
things.  You  can  scarcely  disentangle,  from  the  web 
of  (he  present,  the  associations  that  throng  around  you, 
while  standing  on  the  radiated  spot  in  the  pavement 
where  the  "  old  cross  of  Dun-Edin "  once  reared 
itself;  walking  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Grass-Market,  so 
often  saturate  with  noble  blood ;  or  musing  amid  the 
corridors  and  carved  ceilings  of  the  Old  Parliament- 
House,  you  pause  at  the  trap-door,  which  from  the 
"  lock-up-house,"  eighty  feet  beneath,  gave  entrance  to 
the  haggard  prisoners  into  the  criminal  court,  and  im 
agine  the  tide  of  agonizing  emotions,  which  from  age 
to  age  that  narrow  space  has  witnessed.  A  similar 
dreaminess  and  absorption  in  the  past,  steal  over  you, 
when,  in  the  rock-ribbed  Castle,  you  gaze  on  the  ancient 
regalia,  so  bright,  yet  now  so  obsolete  ;  or  while  explor 
ing  the  Register-Office,  with  its  strong  stone  arches, 
enter  the  circular  room,  with  its  richly  carved  and  sky 
lighted  dome,  where  repose,  in  state,  the  many  massy 
volumes  of  Scotland's  annals ;  or  see,  in  other  apart 
ments,  the  decrees  and  signatures  of  her  kings,  for 
seven  hundred  years  ;  the  illuminated  folio,  where  the 
articles  of  Union,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  were 
inscribed  ;  and  the  repository  of  the  crests,  autograph?, 
and  seals  of  the  ancient  nobles  and  Highland  chieftains, 
many  of  whose  hands  were  less  familiar  with  the  pen 
than  with  the  good  claymore.  In  the  archives  of  the 
Antiquarian  Society,  which  are  kept  in  a  noble  build- 
8 


114  OBJECTS    OF   INTEREST. 

ing,  on  the  plan  of  the  Parthenon,  there  seems  a  sort 
of  blending  of  antique  with  modern  recollections,  as  you 
examine  coats  of  mail,  warriors'  boots  of  amazing 
weight  and  capacity, —  the  terrible  two-handed  sword, — 
the  cumbrous  and  cruel  instrument  of  death,  strangely 
called  "  The  Maiden,"  —  the  pulpit  of  John  Knox,  and 
the  joint-stool  hurled  by  Jane  Geddes  at  the  head  of 
the  Dean  of  Peterborough,  who,  she  said,  was  "  preach 
ing  popery  in  her  lugs,"  when  he  essayed  to  read 
the  Liturgy,  commanded  to  be  used  in  the  churches  by 
Charles  the  First. 

I  have  hinted  that  an  unusual  perseverance  animated 
us  in  our  explorations  of  Edinburgh.  We  seemed 
neither  to  feel  fatigue,  nor  to  fear  satiety.  The  acme 
of  a  traveller's  zeal  came  over  us  there.  It  was  like 
a  first  love,  rendered  more  unquenchable  by  the  re 
straints  and  apprehensions  of  the  voyage,  from  which 
we  had  recently  escaped.  The  magnificent  prospect 
from  Arthur's  Seat,  the  cold  trickling  waters  of  St. 
Anthony's  fountain,  the  rugged  cairn  of  Nichol  Mus- 
kat,  and  the  birthplace  of  the  magician  who  described 
it,  the  sweet  scenery  of  Randolph's  cliff,  the  squares, 
the  statues,  the  drives  in  the  suburbs,  the  noble  Uni 
versity,  the  princely  libraries,  the  model  schools,  the 
hospitals,  the  churches,  even  the  shops  of  the  lapida 
ries,  where  the  Scottish  pebble  is  made  to  take  its 
place  among  gems,  the  club-rooms,  in  whose  luxurious 
arrangement  men  may  sometimes  overlook  the  humbler 
"  blink  of  their  ain  fireside,"  the  publishing  houses,  from 
whence  the  influence  of  genius  and  learning  hath  gone 


BLACKWOOD    AND    CHAMBERS.  115 

forth  over  Europe  and  the  world;  these  and  many 
other  localities,  which  the  time  would  fail  to  specify, 
were  visited  with  eagerness,  either  on  their  own 
account,  or  because  they  appertained  to  this  modern 
Athens. 

It  was  interesting  to  visit  the  establishments  of 
Blackwood,  the  Edinburgh  Magazine,  and  the  brothers 
Chambers,  from  whence  intellectual  light  has  so  long 
radiated  to  our  own  side  of  the  Atlantic ;  and  also  to 
see,  at  Cadell's,  many  manuscript  works  of  Walter 
Scott,  which  had  been  there  published,  neatly  bound, 
and  sheltered  under  glass  cases,  and  written  with  such 
surprising  correctness,  that  for  a  succession  of  pages 
scarcely  a  single  erasure  or  alteration  would  occur. 

As  our  visit  to  Edinburgh  took  place  during  a  vaca 
tion  in  the  University,  we  were  deprived  of  the  privi 
lege  of  seeing  several  distinguished  personages,  who 
were  absent  from  the  city.  Still,  we  were  sensible  of 
no  deficiency,  for  every  day  brought  its  fulness  of  sat 
isfaction.  Here  we  were  first  initiated  into  the  pleasure 
of  the  Scottish  social  breakfasts.  They  are  managed 
with  great  ease,  yet  sufficiently  significant  of  attention 
to  the  stranger-guest ;  and,  avoiding  the  formality  and 
expenditure  both  of  time  and  money  attendant  on  din 
ner-parties,  better  subserve  the  purposes  of  friendly 
intercourse.  Sometimes  they  were  preceded  by  the 
mornin'g  religious  services  of  the  family.  On  one 
such  occasion,  at  the  house  of  a  venerable  clergy 
man,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Innes,  in  a  few  brief  remarks  on 
the  chapter  which  speaks  of  the  loss  of  the  soul,  intro- 


116  ST.  JOHN'S  CHAPEL. 

duced  two  forcible  quotations,  the  closing  one  of  which 
was  from  Robert  Hall :  "  How  bitter  to  think  and  to 
feel,  when  thought  and  feeling  are  agony,  —  to  shrink 
from  the  relentless  tempest,  and  find  all  shelter  hope 
less  ;  how  fearful  to  have  committed  a  mistake  which  is 
both  infinite  and  irreparable,  —  a  mistake  which  it  will 
take  an  eternity  to  deplore,  an  eternity  to  compre 
hend." 

At  St.  John's  Chapel,  we  heard,  with  pleasure,  the 
Dean  of  Edinburgh,  and  admired  a  large  window  of 
stained  glass,  in  whose  gorgeous  colors  the  twelve  apos 
tles  were  depicted.  But  to  particularize  the  objects 
that  delighted  us  would  require  a  separate  volume. 
Scotland  illustrates  in  this,  her  favorite  city,  both  her 
intellectual  riches  and  the  frankness  with  which  she 
receives  the  stranger  into  her  heart  of  hearts. 

Towards  me,  the  last  named  amiable  feeling  was 
deepened,  by  sudden  illness,  into  Christian  sympathy. 
An  affection  of  the  throat,  almost  amounting  to  croup, 
was  occasioned  by  climbing  Salisbury's  Cliff,  in  a  wind 
strong  enough  to  have  swept  less  material  objects  into 
the  Frith  of  Forth.  The  care,  the  nursing-kindness 
then  so  tenderly  exercised  for  me,  can  never  be  forgot 
ten.  Nor  was  it  without  surprise,  that  I,  who  had 
pertinaciously  maintained  a  sort  of  concealed  home 
sickness  amid  all  outward  delights,  found  my  eyes 
blinded  with  tears,  at  bidding  farewell  to  Edinburgh. 

Fair  Queen  of  Caledon,  thou  sitt'st 
Majestic  and  alone, 


FAREWELL    TO    EDINBURGH.  117 

Tin-  strong  arm  of  the  rugged  sea 

A  girdle  round  thee  thrown, 
The  gorgeous  thistle  in  thy  hand, 

That  drinks  the  sunny  ray, 
While  graceful  on  the  northern  breeze 

Thine  unbound  tresses  play. 

In  casket  of  the  massy  rock, 

Within  yon  castled  height, 
Thou  lay'st  thy  rich  regalia  by, 

Dear  to  thy  heart,  and  bright, 
And  clasping  Albion's  proffered  hand, 

A  tear-drop  in  thine  een, 
All  nobly  by  her  side  doth  stand, 

Though  crownless,  yet  a  queen. 

I  said  thou  bad'st  in  castled  nook 

Thy  loved  regalia  rest, 
And  changed  it  for  the  olive  branch, 

That  shadoweth  brow  and  breast, 
For  this  no  more  in  contest  rude, 

Or  challenge  mad  with  haste, 
Or  savage  shock  of  border  wars, 

Thy  sons  their  blood  shall  waste  ; 

No  more,  as  erst,  stern  watch  and  ward 

Upon  yon  hill-tops  hold, 
Where  now  the  shepherd's  voice  at  eve 

Doth  warn  his  flocks  afold, 


118  FAREWELL    TO    EDINBURGH. 

But  freely  pour  a  glowing  soul 
To  thrill  the  tuneful  lyre, 

And  mark  on  Gallon's  beauteous  brow 
Athenian  domes  aspire ; 

And  thou,  with  kindly  guiding  hand, 

May'st  help  the  pilgrim  wight, 
Who  breathless  climbs  to  seek  a  seat 

On  Arthur's  towering  height, 
Or  taste  from  old  St.  Antoine's  well 

Cold  water  sparkling  free, 
Or  o'er  that  ruined  chapel  pore, 

Queen  Margaret  gave  to  thee. 

St.  Giles,  like  time-tried  sentinel, 

Uplifts  his  cross  on  high, 
And  stirs  his  ancient  might  to  guard 

Thy  pristine  majesty ; 
And  Learning  reareth  massive  walls 

Thy  fairest  haunts  among, 
While,  as  a  charmed  child,  the  world 

Doth  list  thy  magic  song. 

Yet  settling  o'er  thy  brow  I  see 
A  tinge  of  mournful  thought, 

For  Autumn  blights  the  heather-flower, 
That  generous  Summer  brought  j 

And  though  I  seek  a  greener  clime, 
Where  flowers  are  fair  to  see, 


FAREWELL    TO    EDINBURGH.  119 

Still,  still,  sweet  Queen  of  Caledon, 
My  spirit  turns  to  thee. 

There  may,  indeed,  be  richer  realms, 

AVliere  pride  and  splendor  roll, 
But  thou  art  skilled  to  soothe  the  pang 

That  rives  the  stranger's  soul ; 
There  may,  perchance,  be  those  who  say 

Thy  mountain-land  is  drear, 
Yet  thou  hast  still  the  wealth  that  wins 

The  stranger's  grateful  tear  : 

And  when,  my  weary  wanderings  o'er, 

I  seek  my  native  land, 
And  by  mine  ingle-side  once  more 

Do  clasp  the  kindred  hand, 
And  when  my  listening  children  ask 

For  tales  of  land  and  sea, 
Their  hands  a  wreath  of  love  shall  twine, 

Edina,  dear,  for  thee. 


MELROSE  AND  ABBOTSFORD. 


THE  village  of  Melrose  nestles  at  the  foot  of  the 
protecting  Eildon  Hills.  It  has  little  power  to  interest 
the  traveller,  save  through  its  famous  old  Abbey.  In 
this  it  is  impossible  to  be  disappointed,  whether  it  is 
seen  by  the  "  pale  moonlight,"  or  not.  The  style  of 
its  architecture,  its  clustered  columns,  its  niches  filled 
with  statues,  its  exquisite  carvings,  from  whence  the 
leaflets,  flowers,  and  fruits  stand  out  with  great  bold 
ness  and  a  delicate  truth  to  nature,  prove  that  the  orna 
mental  parts  must  have  been  executed  several  centu 
ries  later  than  its  erection  under  David  the  First. 
Every  visitant  must  admire,  on  the  capital  of  a  column, 
from  whence  the  roof  which  it  once  supported  has 
mouldered  away,  a  carved  hand,  in  exceedingly  bold 
relief,  clasping  a  garland  of  roses.  It  was  pleasant 
to  see,  in  a  partially  enclosed  courtyard,  a  few  sheep 
cropping  the  herbage  that  crept  up  among  the  stones 
and  between  the  fragments  of  fallen  pillars.  It 
reminded  us  of  the  flocks  that  some  tourist  has  de 
scribed,  as  feeding  so  quietly  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
circus  of  Caracalla,  at  Rome. 


JOHN    BOWER.  121 

Our  guide  through  Melrose  was  Mr.  John  Bower, 
quite  an  original  character,  and  somewhat  of  an  artist, 
who  interspersed  his  services  with  anecdotes,  to  which 
his  broad  Scotch  dialect  imparted  additional  interest. 
He  is  the  same  person  whom  Washington  Irving 
characterizes  as  "  the  showman  of  Melrose.  He  was 
loud  in  his  praises  of  the  affability  of  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
giving  life  to  his  narrations  by  using  the  present  tense. 
*  He  '11  come  here  sometimes/  said  he,  '  with  great 
folks  in  his  company,  and  the  first  I'  11  know  of  it  is 
hearing  his  voice  calling  out  Johnny  !  Johnny  Bower  ! 
and  when  I  go  out,  I  'ra  sure  to  be  greeted  with  a 
joke  or  a  pleasant  word.  He  '11  stand  and  crack  and 
laugh  wi'  me,  just  like  an  auld  wife,  and  to  thmk  that 
of  a  man  that  has  sich  an  awfu'  knowledge  o'  history.'  " 

Johnny  Bower  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  his  favorite 
hero,  and  requested  us  to  sit  on  the  stone  seat,  where 
he  used  to  rest,  when  fatigued  with  walking  about  on 
his  lame  limb,  to  exhibit  the  favorite  abbey  to  his 
numerous  guests.  "  It  was  all  a  trick,"  said  he,  "  the 
getting  him  to  be  buried  at  Dryburgh.  This  was  the 
place.  Everybody  knows  that  he  cam  here  sax  times 
and  mair  to  his  ance  visiting  the  Dryburgh  ruin." 

On  pointing  out  the  marble  slab,  which  covers  the 
dust  of  Alexander  the  Second,  some  remark  was  made 
about  the  period  of  his  accession,  to  which  Johnny 
Bower,  as  he  called  himself,  responded  in  two  lines 
from  Marmion :  — 


"  A  clerk  might  tell  what  years  have  flown 
Since  Alexander  filled  the  throne." 


122  INTERIOR    OF    ABBOTSFORD. 

Large  portions  of  the  "Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel" 
were  familiar  to  him,  which  he  recited  when  any  sur 
rounding  object  recalled  them.  Directing  our  atten 
tion  to  a  rough,  red  stone  in  the  wall,  on  which  were 
the  words,  "  Here  lye  the  race  of  the  house  of  Year," 
or  Carr,  the  present  Dukes  of  Roxburgh,  he  told  us 
that  our  "  great  countryman,  Washington  Irving,  said, 
'  there  was  a  haill  sarmon  on  the  vanity  of  pomp  in 
that  single  line/  "  After  his  agency  as  our  guide  had 
terminated,  we  were  invited  to  his  apartments,  where 
we  saw  his  wife,  and  a  variety  of  drawings  and  casts 
from  Melrose,  several  of  which  he  had  himself  exe 
cuted  ;  and  were  pleased  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
purchasing  of  him  some  engravings. 

When  we  visited  Abbotsford,  it  was  rich  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  roses  and  ripening  fruits.  Embosomed  in 
shades,  it  presents  an  irregular  assemblage  of  turret, 
parapet  and  balcony.  The  principal  hall  -is  hung  with 
armor,  and  the  emblazoned  shields  of  border  chieftains. 
It  is  about  forty  feet  in  length,  and  paved  with  black 
and  white  marble.  It  leads  to  a  room  of  smaller 
dimensions,  called  the  armory,  where  are  multitudes  of 
antique  implements  of  destruction,  and  curiosities  from 
various  climes.  Scott's  antiquarian  tastes  are  inwrought 
with  the  structure  of  the  building.  Here  and  there  is 
a  pannel,  richly  carved  from  the  oak  of  Holy  rood,  or 
the  old  palace  of  Dunfermline.  We  were  also  shown 
a  chimneypiece  from  Melrose,  and  told  that  there  was 
a  roof  from  Roslin  Chapel,  and  a  gate  from  Linlithgow. 
In  the  drawing-room,  dining-room,  and  breakfast  par- 


LIBRARY    AND    STUDY.  123 

lor,  are  many  pictures,  and  gifts  from  persons  of  dis 
tinction.  There  are  also  an  ebony  writing-desk  pre 
sented  by  George  the  Third,  chairs  by  George  the 
Fourth  and  the  Pope,  and  ornaments  in  Italian  marble 
by  Lord  Byron. 

The  magnificence  of  the  library  strikes  every  eye. 
It  is  sixty  feet  by  fifty,  and  contains  more  than  twenty 
thousand  volumes,  beautifully  arranged.  It  has  a  bold 
projecting  window,  commanding  a  lovely  view  of  rural 
scenery  and  the  classic  Tweed.  Shakspeare's  bust, 
and  one  of  Scott,  by  Chantry,  and  a  full-length  portrait 
of  his  eldest  son,  in  military  costume,  are  among  the 
ornaments  of  this  noble  apartment.  It  is  a  pleasing 
instance  of  the  filial  piety  of  this  only  surviving 
son,  that  every  article  throughout  the  mansion  re 
mains,  by  his  orders,  in  exactly  the  same  situation  in 
which  it  was  left  by  his  father.  The  books,  the  anti 
quarian  relics,  all  retain  the  places  given  them  by  him, 
and  the  last  suit  of  clothes  that  he  wore  is  preserved 
under  a  glass  case  in  his  closet. 

But  it  was  in  the  smaller  room,  used  as  a  study,  that 
one  most  feelingly  realizes  the  truth,  that 

"  Hushed  is  the  harp,  the  minstrel  gone ! " 

Lighted  by  a  single  window,  its  furniture  is  ex 
tremely  simple.  I  think  there  was  but  one. chair  in 
it,  beside  that  which  he  was  accustomed  to  occupy. 
Here  was  the  working-spot,  where,  dismissing  all  ex 
traneous  objects,  he  bent  his  mind  to  its  mighty  tasks. 


124         EXTRACT  FROM  LOCKHART. 

We  were  told  that  the  lamp  over  the  mantel-piece,  by 
which  he  wrote,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  lighting  him 
self.  It  was  still  partially  filled  with  oil.  But  the  eye 
that  drew  light  from  it,  and  threw  the  mental  ray 
to  distant  regions,  is  shrouded  in  the  darkness  of  the 
grave. 

It  was  in  this  apartment  that,  after  his  mind  had 
received  its  fatal  shock  from  disease,  he  made  his  last 
ineffectual  effort  to  write.  The  sad  scene  can  never  be 
as  well  described,  as  in  the  words  of  Lockhart. 

"  He  repeated  his  desire  so  earnestly  to  be  taken  to 
his  own  room,  that  we  could  not  refuse.  His  daugh 
ters  went  into  his  study,  opened  his  writing-desk,  and 
laid  paper  and  pens  in  the  usual  order.  I  then  moved 
him  through  the  hall  into  the  spot  where  he  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  work.  When  the  chair 
was  placed  at  the  desk,  and  he  found  himself  in  the  old 
position,  he  smiled  and  thanked  us,  and  said,  *  Now 
give  me  my  pen,  and  leave  me  for  a  little  to  myself.' 
Sophia  put  the  pen  into  his  hand,  and  he  endeavored 
to  close  his  fingers  upon  it.  But  they  refused  their 
office,  and  it  dropped  upon  the  paper.  He  sunk  back 
among  his  pillows,  silent  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
But  composing  himself  by  and  by,  he  motioned  to  me 
to  wheel  him  out  of  doors  again.  After  a  little  while 
he  dropt  into  a  slumber.  On  his  awaking,  Laidlaw 
said  to  me, '  Sir  Walter  has  had  a  little  repose.'  *  No, 
Willie,'  he  replied,  (  no  repose  for  Sir  Walter  but  in 
the  grave.' " 


CONTRASTS.  125 

After  walking  about  the  grounds  of  Abbotsford,  we 
found,  in  a  small,  smoky  hut,  the  widow  of  Purdie,  so 
long  Scott's  forester,  and  confidential  servant.  She  told 
us  stories  of  the  laird,  with  zeal  and  pleasure.  Her 
wrinkled  face  lighted  up  as  she  spoke  of  the  days  of 
his  prosperity,  when  his  house  overflowed  with  guests. 
She  dwelt,  mournfully,  upon  his  kind  farewell  at  her 
door,  when  he  left  for  his  continental  tour,  and  the 
sad  change  in  his  appearance  after  his  return.  We 
were  the  more  pleased  to  listen  to  her  tales,  and  see 
her  honest  sympathy,  from  having  just  been  annoyed 
by  a  different  demeanor  in  the  person  appointed  to 
show  the  apartments  at  Abbotsford.  We  had  been 
forewarned  by  Johnny  Bower  that  we  should  be  waited 
upon  by  an  English  woman,  who  felt  little  interest  in 
Sir  Walter,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  and  who  would 
try  to  hurry  us  through  our  researches.  "  But  ne'er 
ye  mind  thaut,"  said  he,  "  staund  firm."  Yet  we  did 
not  find  it  quite  so  easy  to  "  staund  Jinn"  driven  as 
we  were  from  room  to  room,  our  questions  answered  in 
a  most  laconic  style,  and  the  explanations  that  we 
desired,  denied.  The  cause  of  this  singular  want  of 
attention  might  have  been  the  discovery  of  another 
party  upon  the  grounds,  whose  expected  fee  she  was 
probably  impatient  to  add  to  our  own.  It  is  surely 
desirable  thut  a  spot  like  Abbotsford,  one  of  the  "  Mec 
ca-shrines  "  of  Scotland,  should  be  exhibited  to  pilgrims 
either  by  a  native  of  its  clime,  or  at  least  by  one  not 
deficient  in  the  common  courtesy  of  a  guide. 


126  TOM  PURDIE. 

A  picture  of  Tom  Purdie,  the  faithful  servant,  hangs 
in  the  dining-room  at  Abbotsford,  in  the  vicinity  of 
dukes  and  princes.  Near  the  Abbey  of  Melrose  is  his 
grave  and  monument,  with  this  inscription,  from  the 
pen  of  his  beloved  master : 

In  grateful  remembrance 
of  the  faithful  and  attached  services 

of  twenty-two  years, 
and  in  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  a  humble,  but  sincere  friend, 

this  stone  was  erected  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  of  Abbotsford. 


Here  lies  the  body  of  Thomas  Purdie, 

Wood-Forester,  at  Abbotsford, 
who  died  29th  of  October,  1829,  aged  sixty-two  years. 


Thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few  things ; 
I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many  things." 

Matt.  xxv.  21. 


Dryburgh  is  among  the  most  beautiful  of  the  ancient 
abbeys  of  Scotland.  The  effect  of  its  ruins  is  height 
ened  by  their  standing  forth  in  solitary  prominence, 
amidst  a  charming  landscape.  The  Tweed  sweeps 
around  them  like  a  crescent,  and  the  lofty  back-ground 
is  shrouded  in  rich  foliage,  where  the  oak,  the  beech, 
and  the  mournful  yew  predominate.  Among  other 


GRAVE    OF    SCOTT.  127 

noble  and  striking  points  of  the  structure,  the  windows 
are  conspicuous.  One  large  one,  in  the  southern  part 
of  the  transept,  divided  by  four  mullions,  rises  to  a  lofty 
height,  and  is  seen  majestically  in  the  distance  ;  another, 
of  a  circular  form,  in  the  western  gable  of  what  was 
formerly  the  refectory,  with  the  dark  foliage  waving 
through  it,  is  singularly  picturesque. 

Several  stone  coffins,  or  sarcophagi,  of  apparently 
great  antiquity,  have  been  discovered  in  these  pre 
cincts,  and  are  shown  with  their  venerable  coating  of 
green  moss  and  mould.  In  the  place  appropriated  to 
the  burial  of  the  Erskines,  or  Earls  of  Mar,  we  observed 
an  inscription  bearing  date  in  1168,  and  another  com 
memorating  the  youngest  of  the  thirty-three  children 
of  Kalph  Erskine.  In  the  chapter-house,  which  resem 
bles  a  spacious  cellar,  we  were  surprised  by  a  vast 
assemblage  of  figures  and  busts,  in  plaster  of  Paris. 
They  seemed  a  deputation  from  every  age  and  clime. 
"We  could  scarcely  have  anticipated,  in  a  ruinous  vault 
of  Teviotdale,  thus  to  meet  Socrates  and  Cicero  and 
Julius  Caesar,  Shakspeare  and  Locke  and  Brutus,  the 
Abbot  of  Melrose,  with  his  pastoral  staff,  John  Knox, 
Charles  Fox  and  the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  Count  Rum- 
ford  and  Benjamin  Franklin  and  Watt  of  Birmingham, 
a  strangely  assorted  and  goodly  company. 

But  the  visitant  of  Dryburgh  goes  first  and  last  to 
the  grave,  where,  on  September  2G,  1832,  Sir  Walter 
Scott  was  laid  with  the  Haliburtons,  his  maternal  an 
cestors.  Around  it  are  gathered  many  of  the  objects 
that  in  life  he  loved.  Luxuriant  vines,  with  their 


128  ABBOTSFORD. 

clasping  tendrils,  —  the  overhanging  ivy,  —  the  melan 
choly  cypress,  —  the  mellow  song  of  birds,  — the  distant 
voice  of  Tweed,  —  Gothic  arches  with  their  solemn 
shadow,  and  kindred  dust  reposing  near,  hallow  the 
poet's  tomb. 

Master  of  Abbotsford ! 

Magician  strange  and  strong  ! 
Whose  voice  of  power  is  heard 

By  an  admiring  throng, 
From  court  to  peasant's  cot,  — 

We  come,  but  thou  art  gone, 
We  speak,  thou  answerest  not,  — 

Thy  work  is  done. 

Thou  slumberest  with  the  noble  dead, 

In  Dryburgh's  solemn  pile, 
Amid  the  peer  and  warrior  bold, 
And  mitered  abbots  stern  and  old, 

Who  sleep  in  sculptured  aisle, 
While  Scotia's  skies,  with  azure  gleaming, 
Are  through  the  oriel  window  streaming, 

Where  ivied  mosses  creep  ; 
And  clothed  in  symmetry  sublime, 

The  moss-clad  towers  that  mock  at  time, 
Their  mouldering  legends  keep. 

And  yet,  methinks,  Melrose  had  spread 
Above  her  honor'd  minstrel's  head, 


ABBOTSFORD.  129 

Most  fitting  couch  of  holy  rest, 
And  fondest  lulled  him  on  her  breast, 
AY  he  re  burst  his  first,  most  ardent  song, 
Tweed's  murmuring  tides  and  depths  along, 
"While  the  young  moonbeams  quivering  faint 
O'er  mural  tablet  sculptured  quaint, 

Reveal  a  lordly  race,  — 
And  knots  of  roses  richly  wrought, 
And  tracery  light  as  poet's  thought, 

The  clustered  columns  grace. 
There  good  king  David's  rugged  mien 
Fast  by  his  faithful  spouse  is  seen, 

And  'neath  the  stony  floor 
Lie  chiefs  of  Douglas'  haughty  breast, 
Contented  now  to  take  their  rest, 
And  rule  their  kings  no  more. 
There,  if  we  heed  thy  witching  strain, 
The  fearless  knight  of  Deloraine 
Achieved  his  purpose,  strange  and  bold, 
At  rifled  tomb  and  midnight  cold  ; 
And  there  amid  the  roofless  wall, 
Where  blended  shower  and  sunlight  fall, 
With  stealthy  step  and  half  afraid, 
Still  crops  the  lamb  the  scanty  blade  ; 
While  near  is  seen  the  seat  of  stone, 

Whereon  thou  oft  wouldst  rest 
When  thou  hadst  tower  and  transept  shown 

To  many  a  grateful  guest, 
And  voices  still  of  friendly  tone 
Speak  out,  and  call  thee  blest. 
9 


130  ABBOTSFORD. 

5T  was  but  a  mournful  sight  to  see 

Trim  Abbotsford  so  gay, 
The  rose-trees  flaunting  there  so  bold, 
The  ripening  fruits  in  rind  of  gold, 

And  thou,  their  lord,  away. 
There  stood  the  lamp,  with  oil  unspent, 
O'er  which  thy  thoughtful  brow  was  bent, 

When  erst  with  magic  skill 
Unearthly  beings  heard  thy  call, 
And  buried  ages  thronged  the  hall, 

Obedient  to  thy  will. 
This  fair  domain  was  all  thine  own, 
From  towering  rock  to  threshold  stone  ; 

Yet  didst  thou  lavish  pay 
The  coin  that  caused  life's  wheels  to  stop, 
The  heart's  blood  oozing,  drop  by  drop, 

Through  the  tired  brain  away  ? 

I  said  thy  lamp  unspent  was  there, 
Thy  books  arranged  in  order  fair, 
But  none  of  all  thy  kindred  race 
Found  in  those  lordly  halls  a  place. 
Thine  only  son  in  foreign  lands 
Led  bravely  on  his  martial  bands, 
And  stranger  lips,  unmoved  and  cold, 
The  legends  of  thy  mansion  told,  — 
They  lauded  glittering  brand  and  spear, 
And  costly  gift  from  prince  and  peer, 
And  broad  claymore,  with  silver  dight, 


ABBOTSFORD.  131 

And  hunting-horn  of  border  knight, 

What  were  such  gauds  to  me  ? 
More  dear  had  been  one  single  word, 
From  those  whose  veins  thy  blood  had  stirred 

To  Scotia's  accents  free. 

Yet  one  there  was  in  humble  cell, 

One  poor  retainer,  lone  and  old, 
Who  of  thy  youth  remembered  well, 

And  many  a  treasured  story  told ; 
While  pride  upon  her  wrinkled  face 

Mixed  strangely  with  the  trickling  tear, 
As  memory  from  its  choicest  place 
Brought  forth,  in  wildly  varied  trace, 

Thy  boyhood's  gambols  dear  ; 
Or  pointed  out,  with  withered  hand, 
Where  erst  thy  garden-seat  did  stand, 
When  thou,  returned  from  travel  vain, 
Wrapped  in  thy  plaid,  and  pale  with  pain, 

Didst  gaze  with  vacant  eye, 
For  stern  disease  had  drained  the  fount 

Of  mental  vision  dry. 

Ah  !  what  avails  with  giant  power 
To  wrest  the  trophies  of  an  hour  ; 
One  moment  write  with  flashing  eye 
Our  name  on  castled  turrets  high, 
And  yield,  the  next,  a  broken  trust, 
To  earth,  to  ashes,  and  to  dust. 


132  ABBOTSFORD. 

Master  of  Abbotsford 
No  more  thou  art ! 

But  prouder  trace  and  mightier  word, 
Than  palace-dome  or  arch  sublime 
Have  ever  won  from  wrecking  time, 

Do  keep  thy  record  in  the  heart. 
Thou,  who  with  tireless  hand  didst  sweep 
A\vay  the  damps  of  ages  deep, 
And  fire  with  wild  baronial  strain 
The  harp  of  chivalry  again, 
And  bid  its  long-forgotten  swell 
Thrill  through  the  soul,  farewell !  farewell ! 

Thou,  who  didst  make  from  shore  to  shore 
Bleak  Caledonia's  mountains  hoar, 
Her  clear  lakes  bosomed  in  their  shade, 
Her  sheepfolds  scattered  o'er  the  glade, 
Her  rills  with  music  leaping  down, 
The  perfume  of  her  heather  brown, 
Familiar,  as  their  native  glen, 
To  differing  tribes  of  distant  men, 
Patriot  and  bard  !  Edina's  care 
Shall  keep  thine  image  fresh  and  fair, 
Embalming  to  remotest  time 
The  Shakspeare  of  her  tuneful  clime. 


IIUNTLEY-BURN. 


HtJNTLEY-BuRX  is  a  romantic  stream  issuing  from 
a  small  lake,  or  tarn,  on  the  estate  at  Abbotsford,  and 
running  a  course  of  the  wildest  beauty,  during  which 
it  falls  over  a  steep  bank  into  a  natural  basin,  over 
hung  with  the  mountain  ash.  It  passes  through  a  spot 
called  the  Rhymer's  Glen,  where,  according  to  tra 
dition,  "  Tarn  the  Rhymour"  used  to  hold  intercourse 
with  the  Fairy  Queen.  It  is  in  the  vicinity  of  some 
of  the  plantings  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  a  place 
where  he  loved  to  wander  by  himself  and  with  his 
guests.  It  was  also  still  more  endeared  to  him  by  the 
neighboring  residence  of  the  Ferguson  family,  with 
whom  his  own  were  in  habits  of  delightful  intimacy. 
To  their  hospitable  roof  he  used  to  resort,  when  wea 
ried  with  an  irruption  of  visitants,  or  that  vapid  flat 
tery,  with  which  the  heartless  thought  to  compensate 
for  their  intrusions  on  his  valuable  time,  which  he 
occasionally  complained  to  his  friends  was  "  pecked 
away  by  teaspoonfuls." 

Mention  is  made  of  the  death  of  one  of  the  young 
ladies  of  the  family  at  Huntley-Burn,  in  a  touching 


134  LOCKHART'S  TRIBUTE. 

tribute  of  Lockhart  to  his  departed  wife,  in  the  third 
volume  of  that  interesting  memorial  of  her  father, 
which  his  powerful  pen  has  completed  for  posterity. 

"  She,  whom  I  may  now  sadly  record  as,  next  to  Sir 
Walter  himself,  the  chief  ornament  and  delight  of  all 
our  social  meetings,  —  she,  to  whose  love  I  owed  my  own 
place  in  them  —  Scott's  eldest  daughter,  —  the  one  of  all 
his  children,  who  in  countenance,  mind,  and  manners 
most  resembled  him,  and  who  indeed  was  as  like  him  in 
all  things,  as  a  gentle,  innocent  woman  can  ever  be  to  a 
great  man,  deeply  tried  and  skilled  in  the  struggles  and 
perplexities  of  active  life,  —  she  too  is  no  more  ;  and  the 
very  hour  that  saw  her  laid  in  her  grave,  her  dearest 
friend,  Margaret  Ferguson,  breathed  her  last  also." 

This  fair  cascade  of  Huntley-Burn  was  to  me  more 
interesting,  from  bearing  the  name  of  my  paternal  an 
cestors,  who  were  of  Scottish  descent ;  and  its  wild  glen 
and  romantic  scenery  inspired  pleasant  musings,  and 
cherished  recollections. 


Imp  of  the  Cauldshiel's  shaded  tarns 

Whence  hast  thou  such  a  sparkling  eye  ? 

Such  pleasant  voice,  thy  tales  to  tell  ? 
Such  foot  of  silver  dancing  by  ? 

Like  merry  child  of  sombre  sire, 

Thou  charm'st  the  glen  with  playful  wile, 
'Till  the  dark  boughs  that  o'er  thee  droop, 

Imbibe  the  magic  of  thy  smile. 


nUNTLEY-BUUX.  135 

Thou  wert  of  him  a  fuvor'd  sprite, 
Who  left  to  Abbotsford  a  name  ; 

And  to  each  zone  of  earth  bequeathed 
Some  planted  scion  of  his  fame : 

Thou  brought'st  him  fancy's  food  at  twilight  dim, 
And  now  to  us  dost  give  memorials  sweet  of  him. 


SHEEP  AMONG  THE  CHEVIOTS. 


THE  Cheviots,  which  are  represented  in  some  of  the 
ancient  ballads,  as  green  with  waving  woods,  seem  now 
to  be  a  chain  of  bald  hills,  much  devoted  to  the  pastur 
age  of  flocks.  Around  their  base  the  little  circular 
cotes  or  folds  are  scattered.  In  some  parts  of  this 
region,  the  sheep  are  celebrated  for  the  productiveness 
of  their  fleece,  and  discussions  respecting  their  different 
races  and  comparative  merits,  are  earnestly  pursued  by 
the  neighboring  farmers. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  soon  after  removing  to  his  rural 
residence  at  Ashestiel,  writes :  "  For  more  than  a 
month  my  head  has  been  fairly  tenanted  by  ideas, 
neither  literary  nor  poetical.  Long  sheep  and  short 
sheep,  and  such  kind  of  matters,  have  made  a  perfect 
sheepfold  of  my  understanding."  The  Ettrick  shep 
herd  relates  an  apposite  anecdote  of  one  of  his  inter 
views  with  him  in  1801.  "  During  the  sociality  of  the 
evening,  the  discourse  ran  much  on  the  different  breeds 
of  sheep.  The  original  black-faced  Forest  breed  being 
always  called  the  short  sheep,  and  the  Cheviot  race 
the  long  sheep,  disputes  at  that  period  ran  very  high 


LONG  AND  SHORT  SHEEP.  137 

about  the  practicable  profits  of  each.  Scott,  who  had 
come  into  our  remote  district  only  to  collect  fragments 
of  legendary  lore,  was  bored  with  everlasting  discus 
sion  about  long  and  short  sheep.  At  length,  putting 
on  a  serious,  calculating  face,  he  asked  Mr.  "Walter 
Bryden,  "  How  long  must  a  sheep  actually  measure,  to 
come  under  the  denomination  of  a  long  sheep  ? '  He, 
not  perceiving  the  quiz,  fell  to  answer  with  great  sim 
plicity,  *  It 's  the  woo'  (wool)  it 's  the  woo*  that  makes 
the  difference.  The  lang  sheep  ha'e  the  short  woo', 
and  the  short  sheep  ha'e  the  lang  woo'  ;  and  these  are 
only  jist  kind  o'  names  we  gie  'em.'  Scott  found  it 
impossible  to  preserve  his  gravity,  and  this  incident  is 
skilfully  wrought  into  his  story  of  the  '  Black  Dwarf. ' " 
"We  sometimes  observed  the  flocks  to  stop  grazing, 
and  regard  passing  travellers  with  fixed  attention. 
Whether  they  gazed  from  idle  curiosity,  or  from  that 
love  of  knowledge  which  is  common  to  their  Scottish 
masters,  or  were  a  peculiarly  contemplative  species  of 
sheep,  —  or,  whether  their  rather  scanty  fare  might 
not  keep  their  mental  perceptions  in  greater  activity, 
we  failed  perfectly  to  understand. 


Graze  on,  graze  on,  there  comes  no  sound 

Of  border-warfare  here, 
No  slogan-cry  of  gathering  clan, 

No  battle-axe,  or  spear, 
No  belted  knight  in  armor  bright, 

With  glance  of  kindled  ire, 


138  SHEEP    AMONG    THE    CHEVIOTS. 

Doth  change  the  sports  of  Chevy-Chase 
To  conflict  stern  and  dire. 

Ye  wist  not  that  ye  press  the  spot, 

Where  Percy  held  his  way 
Across  the  marches,  in  his  pride, 

The  "  chiefest  harts  to  slay  ;  " 
And  where  the  stout  Earl  Douglas  rode 

Upon  his  milk-white  steed, 
With  "  fifteen  hundred  Scottish  spears," 

To  stay  the  invaders'  deed. 

Ye  wist  not,  that  ye  press  the  spot 

Where,  with  his  eagle  eye, 
King  James,  and  all  his  gallant  train, 

To  Flodden  Field  swept  by.* 
The  queen  was  weeping  in  her  bower, 

Amid  her  maids  that  day, 
And  on  her  cradled  nursling's  face 

Those  tears  like  pearl-drops  lay. 

For  madly  'gainst  her  native  realm 

Her  royal  husband  went, 
And  led  his  flower  of  chivalry 

As  to  a  tournament ; 

*  The  great  battle  of  Flodden  Field  was  fought  September 
9,1513,  between  Henry  VIII.  and  James  IV.  of  Scotland, — 
the  latter  having  married  Margaret,  sister  of  the  English  king, 
and  daughter  of  Henrv  VII. 


SHEEP   AMONG    THE    CHEVIOTS.  139 

He  led  them  on,  in  power  and  pride, 

But  ere  the  fray  was  o'er, 
They  on  the  blood-stained  heather  slept, 

And  he  returned  no  more. 

Graze  on,  graze  on,  there  's  many  a  rill 

Bright-sparkling  through  the  glade, 
Where  ye  may  freely  slake  your  thirst, 

With  none  to  make  afraid  ; 
There 's  many  a  wandering  stream  that  flows 

From  Cheviot's  terraced  side, 
Yet  not  one  drop  of  warrior's  gore 

Distains  its  crystal  tide : 

For  Scotia  from  her  hills  hath  come, 

And  Albion  o'er  the  Tweed, 
To  give  the  mountain  breeze  the  feuds 

That  made  their  noblest  bleed, 
And,  like  two  friends,  around  whose  hearts 

Some  dire  estrangement  run, 
Love  all  the  better  for  the  past, 

And  sit  them  down  as  one. 


NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 


HERE  we  are,  once  more  in  England.  Some  of  the 
parting  glimpses  of  Scottish  scenery  were  beautiful,  — 
as  "  blessings  brighten  when  they  take  their  flight." 
Of  this  order,  were  the  Abbey  and  Castle  of  Kelso, 
which  revealed  themselves  in  an  imposing  manner,  not 
easily  to  be  forgotten. 

But  truly,  this  hotel  of  the  "  Queen's  Head,"  at 
Newcastle,  has  many  comforts,  peculiarly  English. 
Opening  out  of  the  parlor,  is  the  nicest  recess,  with  a 
carved  ceiling,  lighted  by  two  windows,  where  is  a 
writing-table,  and  every  imaginable  convenience  for 
entrapping  thought  into  intercourse  with  the  pen.  My 
little  ones  must  have  a  greeting  from  this  pleasant 
haunt. 

Feeling  the  slight  chill  of  an  October  morning,  we 
ordered  a  fire  in  the  adjoining  room,  when  the  servant, 
plunging  a  heated  poker  into  the  well-filled  grate,  ig 
nited  it  instantly.  Not  being  acquainted  with  the  com 
bustible  quality  of  the  coal  in  this  region,  we  were 
surprised  at  the  rapidity  of  the  operation.  The  collie 
ries  here  are  extensively  wrought,  and  boats,  covering 


ROMAN    VESTIGES.  141 

the  Tyne,  are  loaded  with  their  products,  which,  both  in 
excellence  and  abundance,  are  remarkable.  This  fine 
river,  about  eight  or  ten  miles  above  its  confluence  with 
the  German  Ocean,  bears,  on  its  north  bank,  Newcas 
tle,  and  on  its  south,  Gateshead,  which  being  united  by 
bridges,  form  an  aggregate  population  of  more  than 
100,000.  Beside  the  staple  trade  in  coal,  there  are 
manufactories  of  iron,  glass,  and  lead.  A  busy  and 
thriving  place,  is  this  Northumbrian  city.  Portions  of 
it  are  extremely  well  built,  though  strong  contrasts 
exist  between  the  old  and  modern  divisions.  The 
churches  of  All  Saints  and  St.  Nicholas  are  grand 
structures,  and  the  spire  of  the  last  very  lofty  and  beau 
tiful. 

Newcastle,  it  is  well  known,  was  an  ancient  Roman 
station.  The  Emperor  Adrian  spanned  the  Tyne  by 
a  stone  bridge,  as  early  as  120;  and  soon  after  con 
nected,  by  earthen  rampart,  the  line  of  forts  which  had 
been  erected,  forty  years  before,  by  Julius  Agricolre. 
Vestiges  are  still  visible  of  the  wall  with  which  Seve- 
rus,  in  207,  strengthened  the  fortifications  of  Adrian ; 
and  of  a  still  more  stupendous  one  erected  by  the  com 
bined  action  of  Rome  and  Britain,  to  repel  their  perse 
vering  and  incursive  neighbors,  the  Scots  and  Picts. 

Our  entrance  to  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  was  during 
the  shades  of  evening.  Lights  flickered  here  and 
there  among  the  environs,  gliding  and  disappearing,  as 
if  WiU-of-the-Wisp  was  dancing  among  the  coal-beds. 
At  length  we  discovered  those  mystic  torches  marked 
an  encampment  of  gipsies.  Occasional  spots  of  more 


142  GIPSIES. 

sustained  brilliance,  revealed  preparations  for  their 
nightly  repast.  Children,  with  wild  elf-locks,  appeared 
and  vanished.  One  or  two  of  the  young  females,  who 
came  more  distinctly  within  the  range  of  our  vision, 
exhibited  striking  features,  and  some  of  those  graceful 
movements  which  Nature  teaches. 

The  number  of  this  singular  people  is  not  great  in 
England,  though  it  is  difficult  correctly  to  compute  it, 
from  their  roving  and  scarcely  tangible  modes  of  exist 
ence.  The  men  are  sometimes  seen  vigorously  labor 
ing  among  the  hay-makers  and  hop-gatherers,  in  the 
counties  of  Surry  and  Kent. 

Henry  the  Eighth,  during  whose  reign  the  gipsies 
first  appeared  in  Great  Britain,  enacted  severe  laws 
against  them  as  vagrants,  which  were  enforced  by 
Elizabeth  and  Anne.  In  Scotland,  they  were  in  early 
times  treated  with  more  mildness,  and  the  gude-wife, 
who  gave  them  a  night's  hospitality,  was  often  pleased 
to  find  that  they  remembered  her  afterwards  by  some 
slight  gift,  perhaps  a  horn  spoon  for  her  child.  In  the 
construction  of  this  article,  and  of  simple  baskets, 
they  are  skilful,  and  likewise  officiate  as  tinkers  and 
rude  musicians.  Pilfering  and  palmistry  are  said  to  be 
indigenous  among  them ;  yet,  like  our  aboriginal  Amer 
icans,  they  have  some  strong  traits  of  character,  sus 
ceptibilities  both  of  revenge  and  of  gratitude.  Though 
their  race  have  been  for  ages  regarded  with  contempt 
or  indifference,  there  have  always  been  individuals  to 
extend  to  them  pity  or  kindness,  and  within  the  last 
twenty  or  thirty  years,  a  few  Christian  philanthropists 


IIOYLAND'S  BENEVOLENCE.  143 

have  been  desirous  to  enlighten  their  ignorance,  and 
ameliorate  their  condition.  Among  them,  Mr.  Hoy- 
land,  of  the  Society  of  Friends,  has  been  persevering 
in  this  mission  of  mercy.  He  has  visited  their  en 
campments,  and  sought  to  gain  influence  over  them 
for  good.  A  gray  haired  woman  of  more  than  eighty 
years  of  age,  told  him  she  had  many  children,  and 
nearly  fifty  grandchildren,  not  one  of  whom  had  ever 
been  taught  to  read.  He  embodied  the  result  of  his 
observations  in  a  volume  published  in  18 1C,  which 
contains  much  interesting  information,  and  is  itself  a 
monument  of  that  true  benevolence,  which,  in  the 
despised  homeless  wanderers  among  the  highways  and 
hedges,  recognizes  the  possessors  of  an  immortal  soul. 


Gipsy  !  see,  with  fading  light, 
How  the  camp-fire  blazes  bright, 
Where  thy  roving  people  steal 
Gladly  to  their  evening  meal. 
Tawny  urchins,  torn  and  bare, 
And  the  wrinkled  crone  is  there, 
Who  pretends,  with  scowling  eye 
Into  fate's  decrees  to  pry, 
And  the  credulous  to  show 
Golden  fortunes,  free  from  woe. 

AVhy,  beneath  the  hedge-row  lone, 
Sit'st  thou  on  that  broken  stone, 
Heedless  of  the  whoop  and  call 
To  their  merry  festival  ? 


144  THE    GIPSY   MOTHER. 

Masses  rich  of  raven  hair 
Curtain  o'er  thy  forehead  rare, 
Thou  'It  be  missed  amid  their  glee, 
Wherefore  stay'st  thou  ? 
Ah !  I  see 

On  a  babe  thy  dark  eye  resting, 
Closely  in  thy  bosom  nesting, 
And  't  is  sweeter  far  I  know, 
Than  at  proudest  feast  to  glow, 
Full  contentment  to  dispense 
Thus  to  helpless  innocence. 

Doth  the  presence  of  thy  child 
Make  thy  flashing  glance  so  mild  ? 
Thou,  who  with  thy  vagrant  race 
Reared  mid  tricks  and  follies  base, 
Ne'er  hast  seen  a  heavenly  ray 
Guiding  toward  the  better  way  ? 
Feel'st  thou  now  some  latent  thrill, 
Sorrowing  o'er  a  life  of  ill  ? 
Some  incitement  pure  and  good, 
Dim,  and  faintly  understood  ? 
Stranger  !  't  is  the  prompting  high 
Of  a  mother's  ministry, 
Yield  to  that  transforming  love, 
May  it  lead  thy  soul  above. 

Dost  thou  muse  with  downcast  eye 
On  thine  infant's  destiny  ? 
Alien  birth,  and  comrades  vile, 
Harsh  control,  or  hateful  wile, 


THE    GIPSY    MOTHER.  145 

Till  thy  prescient  heart  forlorn 
Sickens  at  its  lot  of  scorn  ? 
One  there  is,  to  whom  is  known 
All  a  mother's  secret  moan, 
He,  who  heard  the  bitter  sigh 
Of  that  lone  one's  agony, 
When  the  water-drop  was  spent, 
And  no  spreading  branch  or  tent 
Sheltered  from  the  burning  sky, 
Where  she  laid  her  son  to  die. 

See !  an  angel  near  her  stand, 

And  a  fountain's  silver  track 
Murmuring  mid  the  desert  sand 

Call  from  death  her  darling  back. 
Oh  !  to  Him  who  still  doth  deign 
Pity  for  their  outcast  pain, 
Whom  proud  man  with  haughty  eye 
Scarce  regards,  and  passes  by  ; 
Who  amid  the  tempest-shock 
Roots  the  wild  vine  on  the  rock, 
And  protects  the  bud  to  bless 
The  untrodden  wilderness, 
Lift  thine  eye  with  tear-drops  dim, 
Cast  thy  bosom's  fear  on  Him. 
He  who  heeds  the  ravens'  cry 
In  their  hopeless  misery, 
Deigns  to  feed  them  when  they  pine, 
Cares  He  not  for  thee  and  thine  ? 


10 


146  THE    GIPSY   MOTHER. 

Gipsy  Mother !  lone  and  drear, 

Sad  I  am  to  leave  thee  here, 

For  the  strong  and  sacred  tie 

Of  thy  young  maternity 

Links  thee  unto  all  who  share 

In  its  comfort  or  its  care, 

All  who  on  their  yearning  breast 

Lull  the  nursling  to  its  rest, 

And  though  poor  and  low  thou  art, 

Makes  thee  sister  in  their  heart. 

Gipsy  Mother !  strangely  fair, 
God  be  with  thee  in  thy  care. 


YORK  AND  ITS  MINSTER. 


ON  our  route  to  York,  about  sixteen  miles  from 
Newcastle,  we  had  opportunity  to  admire  the  rich 
meadows  of  Durham  sleeping  in  the  embrace  of  the 
"NVeare,  and  the  lofty  eminence  crowned  by  its  magnifi 
cent  cathedral  and  castle.  The  towering  oaks  of  Dar 
lington  attracted  our  attention,  as  did  also  Hermitage- 
Castle,  Thirlby-House,  embosomed  amid  noble  trees, 
and  other  edifices  and  townships,  of  which  a  traveller's 
haste  permitted  only  a  cursory  examination. 

After  crossing  the  Trent,  which  divides  the  county 
of  Durham  from  Yorkshire,  we  observed  a  high  state 
of  tillage  and  fine  breeds  of  cattle,  with  farm-houses  of 
brick,  roofed  with  red  tile,  —  far  less  picturesque  than 
the  whitewashed  cottage,  with  its  embrasure  of  roses. 
The  city  of  York  is  situated  in  a  rich  vale,  of  a  penin 
sular  form,  between  the  rivers  Ouse  and  Fosse,  and 
equidistant  from  the  capital  cities  of  Scotland  and 
England.  It  is  fortified,  and  tradition  says,  that  Agri- 
cola  labored  upon  its  walls.  However  this  may  be,  it 
was  early  distinguished  by  the  Romans,  during  their 
dynasty  in  Britain.  The  Emperor  Adrian  made  it  his 


148  ROMANS    AT   YORK. 

residence  as  early  as  the  year  134,  and  it  was  the 
camp,  the  court,  and  the  tomb  of  Severus.  Here, 
about  272,  Constantine  the  Great  was  born,  and  here, 
in  the  imperial  palace,  his  son,  Constantius,  died.  The 
footsteps  of  old  Rome,  upon  this  spot,  are  attested  by 
altars,  inscriptions,  seals,  and  sepulchral  vessels,  which 
have  been  from  age  to  age  exhumed.  Not  more  than 
thirty  years  since,  some  workmen,  in  digging  the  found 
ation  of  a  house,  struck,  four  feet  below  the  surface,  on 
a  vault  of  stone,  strongly  arched  with  Roman  bricks. 
It  contained  a  coffin,  enclosing  a  slender  human  skele 
ton,  with  the  teeth  entire,  supposed  to  be  a  female  of 
rank,  who  had  lain  there  at  least  one  thousand  four 
hundred  years.  Near  her  head  was  a  small  glass  lach 
rymatory,  and  not  far  from  her  place  of  repose  was 
found  an  urn  containing  ashes  and  calcined  bones  of 
another  body.  Still  more  recently,  the  remains  of  a 
tessellated  pavement,  with  other  relics  of  great  an 
tiquity,  have  been  found  and  presented  to  the  York 
shire  Philosophical  Society.  Our  own  antiquarian 
tastes  were  easily  and  simply  gratified,  by  finding,  in 
various  repositories,  during  our  walks,  slight  utensils, 
such  as  boxes,  vases,  inkstands,  and  candlesticks, 
wrought  and  neatly  polished  from  the  charred  beams 
of  the  venerable  Minster. 

It  is  impossible  to  explore  the  city  of  York,  without 
reverting  to  the  scenes  which  History  has  so  indelibly 
traced,  as  almost  to  give  them  living  existence  among 
the  objects  that  surround  us.  Imagination  rekin 
dles,  on  the  neighboring  hills,  the  fires  of  the  funeral 


HISTORICAL    RECOLLECTIONS.  149 

pile  of  Sevcrus,  or  recalls  the  tumult  of  the  sanguina 
ry  battles  of  Tow  ton  and  Marston  Moor,  fought  in  the 
vicinity,  one  of  which  terminated  the  fierce  wars  of  the 
Roses,  and  the  other,  through  the  imprudence  of  Prince 
Ruprrt,  crushed  the  hopes  of  the  Royalists. 

We  fancy  that  we  listen  to  the  chimes  of  the  first 
Christmas,  as  it  was  here  celebrated  by  Prince  Arthur, 
or  gather  traits  of  its  more  splendid  observance,  under 
Henry  the  Third  or  Edward  the  Second,  from  the 
pages  of  the  old  Chroniclers.  Still  following  the  an 
nals  of  war,  we  perceive  the  blood  of  Scot,  Pict,  and 
Dane,  Roman,  Saxon,  and  Norman,  mingling  beneath 
these  walls.  Sack  and  siege  darken  the  picture.  Wil 
liam  the  Conqueror,  flushed  with  success  and  domina 
tion,  held  his  armies  for  six  months  before  these  walls, 
until  famine  compelled  capitulation,  and  then  satiated 
his  vengeful  cruelty  by  the  slaughter  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry,  and  the  devastation  of  the  whole  country 
between  York  and  Durham. 

In  the  wars  under  Charles  the  First,  a  siege  by  the 
Parliamentary  forces  was  endured  for  several  months, 
which  some  of  the  present  inhabitants  are  fond  of  say 
ing  would  have  been  longer  withstood,  had  not  Fairfax 
pointed  a  battery  of  cannon  against  the  venerable  ca 
thedral,  and  threatened  to  destroy  that  glory  of  their 
ancestors. 

We  may  now  hope,  with  regard  to  York,  that  the 
days  of  its  warfare  and  mourning  are  ended  ;  and  the 
traveller  is  gratified  to  find  the  turmoil  of  the  battle 
field  exchanged  for  the  Christian  cares  of  the  Hospital, 


150  YORK    MINSTER. 

the  Dispensary,  the  Retreat  for  the  Insane,  the  Insti 
tution  for  the  education  of  the  Blind,  the  Charity 
Schools,  and  the  twenty  parish  churches  that  diversify 
its  bounds. 

It  seems  impossible  to  be  disappointed  in  York 
Minster,  however  high  may  have  been  previous  expec 
tations.  When  you  first  gain  a  view  of  this  mountain 
of  ecclesiastical  architecture,  or,  at  entering,  cast  your 
eye  through  a  vista  of  five  hundred  and  twenty-four 
feet,  or  from  the  tessellated  marble  pavement  gaze 
through  column  and  arch  up  to  the  ribbed  and  fretted 
dome,  ninety-nine  feet  above  you,  or  catch  the  light  of 
a  thousand  wreathed  and  trembling  rainbows,  through 
gloriously  refulgent  windows,  you  are  lost  in  wonder 
and  astonishment.  Its  different  parts,  nave,  transept, 
choir,  chapter-house,  and  crypt,  with  the  rich  decora 
tions  of  screen,  statue,  tracery,  and  monument,  where 
sleep  the  illustrious  dead,  require  many  surveys,  and 
repay  all  with  the  fulness  of  admiration.  The  original 
erection  on  this  site  is  of  great  antiquity,  and  the  pres 
ent  edifice,  though  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
years  in  building,  displays,  amid  variety  of  taste  and 
style,  great  unity  of  design.  It  has  loftily  withstood 
the  attacks  of  time  and  the  depredations  of  war,  but 
some  portions  have  been  considerably  injured  by  recent 
conflagration,  and  are  now  in  the  process  of  repair. 
The  magnificent  swell  of  the  organ,  and  the  majesty 
and  sweetness  of  the  chants,  especially  during  the 
Sabbath  worship,  seemed  unearthly.  Twice,  on  every 
weekday,  the  service  of  prayer  and  praise  ascends 


YORK    MINSTER.  151 

from  this  venerable  cathedral,  and  it  is  a  touching 
thought,  that  its  great  heart  of  stone  keeps  alive  that 
incense  to  Jehovah,  which  too  often  grows  dim  and 
cold  on  the  altar  of  the  living  soul. 


I  stood  within  a  Minster  of  old  time, 
Ornate  and  mighty.     Like  a  mount  it  reared 
Its  massy  front,  with  pinnacle  and  tower, 
Augustly  beautiful.     The  morning  sun 
Through  noblest  windows  of  refulgent  stain, 
Mullioned,  and  wrought  with  leafy  tracery, 
Threw  o'er  the  pavement  many  a  gorgeous  group 
Of  cherubim  and  seraphim  and  saint, 
And  long-robed  patriarch,  kneeling  low  in  prayer, 
While,  as  his  golden  finger  changed  the  ray, 
Fresh  floods  of  brilliance  poured  on  all  around. 

—  O'er  the  long  vista  the  delighted  eye 
Bewildered,  roved,  —  transept,  and  nave,  and  choir, 
And  screen  elaborate,  and  column  proud, 

And  vaulted  roof  that  seemed  another  sky. 

—  Methinks  I  hear  a  murmur,  that  't  is  vain 
To  note  mine  etchings  of  an  older  world, 
Since  all  their  vague  impressions  fall  as  short 
Of  abbey  or  cathedral,  as  the  wing 

Of  the  dull  beetle,  that  would  scale  their  heights. 

—  It  may  be  so.     I  'm  sure  't  is  loss  of  time, 
For  me  to  speak  of  pediment  and  tower, 
Saxon  or  Norman,  and  debate  with  warmth, 


152  YORK   MINSTER. 

Whether  the  chevron- work,  and  foliage  knots 

Are  of  the  third  or  second  Gothic  school ; 

The  builder  knows,  —  perchance,  the  school-boy  too. 

But  poets'  cobweb  line  hath  ever  failed 

To  measure  these  aright,  and  set  them  forth 

With  Euclid's  skill.     Go  see  them  for  yourselves. 

Yet  can  we  people  every  vacant  niche, 

And  mend  the  headless  statue,  and  restore 

The  rusted  relics  of  a  buried  age, 

And  spread  the  velvet  pall  the  moth  did  eat 

All  fresh  and  lustrous  o'er  the  ancient  dead. 

So  be  ye  patient  with  us,  and  not  ask 

The  admeasurement  of  transept  or  of  nave, 

But  let  us  perch,  like  bird,  where'er  we  choose, 

And  weave  our  fleeting  song,  as  best  we  may. 

Fain  would  I  tell  you,  what  a  world  of  sound 

Came  from  that  pealing  organ,  when  its  soul, 

Mixed  with  the  chanter's  breath,  bade  arch  and  aisle 

Reecho  with  celestial  melody. 

Its  mighty  tide  bore  off  the  weeds  of  care 

And  sands  of  vanity,  and  made  the  words, 

Such  common  words  as  man  doth  speak  to  man, 

All  tame  and  trifling  to  the  immortal  soul. 

I  would  not  say  devotion  may  not  be 

As  heartfelt,  in  the  humblest  village  church 

That  flecks  the  green  ;  but  yet,  it  seemeth  fit, 

That  those,  who  thus,  from  age  to  age,  have  been 

Unresting  heralds  of  the  Eternal  Name, 


YORK    MINSTER.  153 

Should  deck  themselves  in  princely  garniture, 
As  Heaven's  ambassadors. 

To  Him  who  bade 

The  broad-winged  cherubs  beautify  the  Ark 
That  taught  His  worship  to  the  wilderness, 
And  mitred  Aaron  stand  in  priestly  robes, 
And  Zion's  temple  wear  its  crown  of  rays, 
Like  a  king's  daughter,  thou,  majestic  pile, 
Dost  show  thy  reverence  by  thy  glorious  garb, 
And,  with  a  solemn  tone,  require  of  man 
Unceasingly,  that  incense  of  the  heart, 
Which  he  doth  owe  to  God.     And  when  he  drops 
Thy  lesson  in  the  grave,  and  fades  away, 
With  what  unwrinkled  patience  dost  thou  teach 
Each  new-born  race  Jehovah's  awful  name, 
And  press  upon  their  infant  lips  His  praise. 

—  Again  we  came,  and  on  the  Sabbath-day, 
And  marked,  amid  the  throng  of  worshippers, 
A  poor  old  man,  bent  low  with  years  of  toil. 
His  garb  was  humble,  and  his  lowly  seat 
Fast  by  the  reader  in  the  sacred  desk, 
Because,  raethought,  his  ear  was  dull  to  sound. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  travel  had  been  sore, 
Along  the  barren  wilds  of  poverty, 
But  yet  that,  mid  its  flint-stones,  he  had  found 
That  pearl  of  price,  which  the  rich  merchantman 
Too  oft  o'erlooketh  on  his  prosperous  way. 
Meekly  he  bowed,  nor  cast  a  wandering  glance 
Toward  kingly  scutcheon,  or  emblazoned  arms 


154  YORK   MINSTER. 

Of  prince  and  peer,  but  listened  earnestly, 

As  for  his  life,  to  what  the  King  of  kings 

Commanded  or  forbade.     When  solemnly 

The  deep  responsive  litany  invoked 

Aid  and  deliverance  by  the  agony 

And  cross  of  Christ,  his  trembling  hands  he  raised, 

Horny,  and  brown  with  labor,  while  a  tear 

Crept  slowly  down  its  furrowed  path.     Old  man  ! 

Thou  hast  within  thee  that  which  shall  survive 

This  temple's  wreck,  and  if  aright  I  read 

Our  Master's  spirit  in  thy  moistened  eye, 

That  which  shall  wear  a  crown,  when  earthly  thrones 

Have  name  no  more. 

And  then  we  knelt  us  down 
Around  the  altar,  in  that  hallow'd  feast 
Which  Jesus,  in  his  dark  betrayal-night, 
Enjoined  on  his  disciples.     There  we  took 
The  broken  bread  and  cup,  remembering  Him 
In  all  his  lowliness,  in  all  his  love, 
Who  sought  the  straying  sheep. 

So  lift  thy  crook, 

Shepherd  Divine  !  that  we  may  follow  thee 
Where'er  thou  will'st  to  lead,  nor  miss  thy  fold, 
When  the  slant  beams  of  life's  declining  day 
Call  home  the  wanderers  to  eternal  rest. 


BIRMINGHAM  AND  SHEFFIELD. 


BIRMINGHAM  occupies  a  central  position,  with  an 
elevated  and  pleasant  site.  It  exhibits  more  than  a 
hundred  line  churches ;  among  which,  the  ancient  one 
of  St.  Martin's,  with  its  towering  spire,  is  conspicuous. 
Among  its  lions  is  a  spacious  town-hall,  which  we  were 
so  fortunate  as  to  see  brilliantly  lighted,  and  filled  with 
an  immense  audience,  assembled  to  aid  the  cause  of 
missions.  Eloquent  addresses  were  delivered  by  the 
advocates  of  this  cause,  as  well  as  by  some  who  had 
once  gone  forth  as  laborers  in  foreign  zones,  among  the 
benighted  pagans. 

Birmingham  is  eminently  a  practical,  working  region. 
It  has  distinguished  itself  by  those  inventions  and  im 
provements  in  machinery,  which  diminish  the  labor  of 
man,  and  promote  his  civilization.  Our  limited  time 
allowed  us  to  examine  but  few  of  its  manufactories. 
Among  these,  we  were  much  interested  in  an  exten 
sive  one  of  plate-glass,  belonging  to  the  Messieurs 
Chance.  Its  proprietors,  to  whom  we  were  indebted 
for  other  polite  attentions,  patiently  explained  to  us  the 
process  of  preparing  that  exquisite  material,  blowing  it 


156  SHOW-ROOMS. 

into  a  cylindrical  form,  and  giving  it,  with  emery,  its 
last  perfect  polish.  We  saw,  also,  the  progress  of  ope 
rations  in  bronze,  and  silver,  and  papier  mache ;  and 
could  scarcely  believe  that  those  highly  ornamented 
articles,  in  the  repository  of  the  latter,  —  screens,  ta 
bles,  cabinets,  &c.,  inlaid  with  pearl,  and  radiant  with 
the  richest  hues  of  the  pencil,  —  could  possibly  have 
sprung  from  so  rude  an  element  as  coarse,  brown  paste 
board. 

To  Sheffield,  the  kindred  spirit  of  Birmingham,  we 
turned,  as  by  natural  affinity.  It  is  about  equidistant 
from  the  eastern  and  western  oceans,  and  two  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  from  our  favorite  Edina.  It  is  strongly 
picturesque,  with  its  abrupt  declivities,  intervening 
spaces  of  bright  verdure,  metallic  and  mineral  riches, 
and  private  residences  of  decided  elegance. 

We  were  kindly  taken  by  the  Messieurs  Sanderson 
to  their  celebrated  establishment  for  making  and  refin 
ing  steel,  and  saw  it  poured,  in  its  liquid  state,  from 
flame-hot  crucibles,  with  the  most  brilliant  scintillations. 
Through  their  attention,  we  were  also  shown  the  vari 
ous  processes  of  silver-plating ;  and  also  the  fair  botanic 
garden  and  conservatory,  which  afforded  sensible  relief 
from  the  heat  and  mystery  of  metalic  exhibitions. 
Afterwards  we  visited  the  show-rooms  of  Rogers  and 
Sons,  and  among  their  almost  endless  variety  of  cut 
lery,  silver,  and  ivory,  saw  under  a  glass  case  the  knife 
with  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
blades,  so  often  marvelled  at  by  travellers.  The  pros 
pects  from  the  heights  around  Sheffield  are  variegated 


MONTGOMERY.  157 

and  beautiful.  Yet  more  interesting  than  any  combi 
nation  of  hill  and  dale,  inasmuch  as  mind  must  ever 
hold  superiority  over  matter,  was  an  interview  with  the 
poet  Montgomery,  who  came  to  call  on  us  at  our  hotel. 
He  is  small  of  stature,  with  an  amiable  countenance, 
and  agreeable,  gentlemanly  manners.  His  conversa 
tion  is  unassuming,  though  occasionally  enlivened  by  a 
vein  of  pleasantry.  Some  of  the  company  happening 
to  remark,  that  they  were  not  aware  of  his  having  been 
born  in  Scotland,  he  replied  that  he  had  left  it  in  his 
early  years,  adding,  with  naivete,  "  You  know  Dr. 
Johnson  has  said,  there  is  hope  of  a  Scotchman  if  you 
catch  him  young." 

We  left  Birmingham  and  Sheffield  with  warm  feel 
ings  of  gratitude  for  the  kindness  which  had  marked 
our  stay  in  both  places,  and  which  will  always  mingle 
with  our  recollections  of  their  scenery. 


'T  is  something  to  be  called 
The  "  toy-shop  of  a  continent,"  by  one 
Whose  voice  was  fame.     And  yet  a  name  like  this 
Hath  not  been  lightly  earned.     Hard  hammerings 
And  fierce  ore-meltings,  mid  a  heat  that  threats 
To  vitrify  the  stones,  have  wrought  it  out 
On  the  world's  anvil. 

Ponderous  enginery, 

And  sparkling  smithies,  and  a  pallid  throng, 
Who  toil,  and  drink,  and  die,  do  service  here, 


158  BIRMINGHAM   AND    SHEFFIELD. 

And  countless  are  the  forms  their  force  creates ; 
From  the  dire  weapon  sworn  to  deeds  of  blood, 
That  sweeps,  with  sharp  report,  man's  life  away, 
To  the  slight  box  from  whence  the  spinster  takes 
Her  creature-comfort,  or  the  slighter  orb 
Of  treble-gilt,  which  the  pleased  school-boy  finds 
On  his  new  suit,  counting  the  shining  rows 
With  latent  vanity. 

Well  pleased,  I  marked 
This  strange  creativeness,  because  I  knew 
That  Birmingham  had  stretched  an  iron  hand 
Across  the  Atlantic  wave,  and  grappled  close 
My  country  in  that  league  of  amity 
Which  commerce  loves.     And  whatsoe'er  shall  bind 
Those  lands  in  unity,  is  dear  to  me, 
Whether  the  links  be  metal,  or  the  threads 
Of  silky  filament  by  genius  thrown 
From  clime  to  clime,  or  those  which  science  knits 
In  firmer  mesh,  as  erst  the  sorceress  wove 
The  strong  man's  locks. 

Here,  too,  were  fabrics  rich 
That  taste  might  covet,  —  cabinet  and  screen, 
Table  and  tray,  with  pearly  shell  inlaid, 
And  bright  with  tints  of  landscape  or  of  flower. 
Here  glass  in  crystal  elegance  essayed 
To  emulate  the  diamond,  and  we  saw 
The  flaming  fount  from  whence  its  glories  came, 
And  how  the  glowing  cylinder  expands 
Into  those  broad  and  polished  plates,  that  deck 
The  abodes  of  princes. 


BIRMINGHAM    AND    SHEFFIELD.  159 

Many  a  curious  thing 

Was  shown  us  too  at  Sheffield,  —  ornaments, 
And  thousand-bladed  knives,  and  fairy  tools 
For  ladies  fingers,  when  the  thread  they  lead 
Through  finest  lawn  ;  and  silver  richly  chased, 
To  make  the  festal  board  so  beautiful, 
That,  unawares,  the  tempted  matron's  hand 
Invades  her  husband's  purse. 

But  as  for  me, 

Though  the  whole  art  was  patiently  explained, 
From  the  first  piling  of  the  earthy  ore, 
In  its  dark  ovens,  to  its  pouring  forth 
With  brilliant  scintillations,  in  the  form 
Of  liquid  steel ;  or  its  last  lustrous  face, 
And  finest  net-work  ;  yet  I  'm  fain  to  say 
The  manufacturing  interest  would  find 
In  me  a  poor  interpreter.     I  doubt 
My  own  capacity  to  comprehend 
Such  transmutations,  and  confess,  with  shame, 
Their  processes  do  strike  my  simple  mind 
Like  necromancy.     And  I  felt  no  joy 
Among  the  crucibles  and  cutlery, 
Compared  to  that,  which  on  the  breezy  heights 
Met  me  at  every  change,  or  mid  the  walks 
Of  the  botanic  garden,  freshly  sprang 
From  every  flower. 

There  was  a  quiet  lodge 

From  whence  peered  forth,  as  guardian  of  the  place, 
A  mighty  dog,  of  true  St.  Bernard's  breed, 
With  such  a  forehead  as  phrenologists 


160  MONTGOMERY. 

Might  stoop  to  analyze.     Well  pleased  to  change 
His  slippery  footing  'mid  the  Alpine  cliffs, 
And  midnight  conflicts  with  the  avalanche, 
He  dozed  among  the  birds  who  nestle  here, 
All  prodigal  of  song,  and  laid  no  claim, 
Though  lion-like  in  strength,  to  the  renown 
Of  that  bad  Cerberus,  who  gnashed  and  growled 
At  the  Hesperides. 

But  Sheffield,  sure, 

Hath  more  to  boast,  than  plants  whose  greenness  fades, 
Or  riches  of  the  mine.     She  pointed  out 
The  sweet  Moravian  poet,  he  who  saw 
Through  Fancy's  glass,  the  "World  before  the  Flood," 
And  told  its  doings  to  our  grosser  ear, 
And  oft  had  given  Devotion's  lip  the  words 
She  sought  but  could  not  find.     High  praise  is  his 
Who  bends  his  talents  to  their  noblest  ends, 
And  ne'er  disjoins  them  from  the  Maker's  praise :  — 
Such  praise  is  thine,  Montgomery,  meek  in  heart. 
And  full  of  Christian  love. 

We  said  farewell 

Reluctantly  to  those,  who,  like  tried  friends, 
Though  newly  seen,  had  marked  each  fleeting  hour 
With  deeds  of  kindness ;  and  as  through  the  scenes 
Of  glorious  beauty,  hill  and  dale  and  tower, 
Swept  on  our  light  postchaise,  of  them  we  spake 
Such  words  as  glowing  gratitude  inspires. 

There  stood  a  cottage,  near  a  spreading  moor, 
Just  where  its  heathery  blackness  melts  away 


THE    COTTAGE    MAIDEN.  1G1 

Into  a  mellower  hue.     Fast  by  its  side 

Nestled  the  wheat-stock,  firmly  bound  and  shaped 

Even  like  another  roof-tree,  witnessing 

Fair  harvest  and  good  husbandry.     Some  sheep 

Roamed  eastward  o'er  the  common,  nibbling  close 

The  scanty  blade,  while  toward  the  setting  sun 

A  hillock  stretched,  o'crshadowed  by  a  growth 

Of  newly  planted  trees.     'T  would  seem  the  abode 

Of  rural  plenty  and  content.     Yet  here 

A  desolate  sorrow  dwelt ;  such  as  doth  wring 

Plain  honest  hearts,  when  what  had  long  been  twined 

AVith  every  fibre  is  dissected  out. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  those  lowly  eaves 
An  only  daughter  made  the  parents  glad 
"With  her  unfolding  beauties.     Day  by  day 
She  gathered  sweetness  on  her  lonely  stem,  — 
The  lily  of  the  moorlands.     They,  with  thoughts 
Upon  their  humble  tasks,  how  best  to  save 
Their  little  gains,  or  make  that  little  more, 
Scarce  knew  that  she  was  beautiful ;  yet  felt 
Strange  thrall  upon  their  spirits  when  she  spoke 
So  musical,  or  from  some  storied  page 
Beguiled  their  evening  hour. 

And  when  the  sire 

Descanted  long,  as  farmers  often  will, 
Upon  the  promise  of  his  crops,  and  how 
The  neighbors  envied  that  his  corn  should  be 
Higher  than  theirs,  and  how  the  man  who  hoped 
Surely  to  thrive,  must  leave  his  bed  betimes,  — 
11 


1G2  THE    STUDENT    LOVER. 

Or  ot  her  golden  cheese  the  mother  told,  — 
She,  with  a  filial  and  serene  regard, 
"Would  seem  to  listen,  —  her  young  heart  away 
Mid  other  things. 

For  in  her  lonely  room, 

She  had  companions  that  they  knew  not  of,  — 
Books,  that  reveal  the  sources  of  the  soul, 
Deep  meditations,  high  imaginings ,; 
And,  meekly,  when  the  cottage  lamp  was  out, 
She  sat  communing  with  them,  while  the  moon 
Looked  through  her  narrow  casement  fitfully. 
Hence  grew  her  brow  so  spiritual,  and  her  cheek 
Pale  with  the  purity  of  thought,  that  gleamed 
Around  her  from  above. 

The  rustic  youth, 

Nursed  at  the  ploughshare,  wondering  eyed  her  charms, 
Or  of  her  aspen  gracefulness  of  form 
Spoke  slightingly.     Yet,  when  they  saw  the  fields 
Her  father  tilled,  well  clad  with  ripening  grain, 
And  knew  he  had  no  other  heir  beside, 
They,  with  unwonted  wealth  of  Sunday  clothes, 
And  huge,  red  nosegays  flaunting  in  their  hands, 
Were  fain  to  woo  her.     And  they  marvelled  much 
How  the  sweet  fairy,  with  such  quiet  air 
Of  mild  indifference,  and  with  truthful  words 
Kind,  yet  determinate,  withdrew  herself 
To  chosen  solitude,  intent  to  keep 
A  maiden's  freedom. 

But  in  lonely  walks, 
What  time  the  early  violets  richly  blend 


PARTING   AND    DEATH.  1G3 

Their  trembling  colors  with  the  vernal  green, 
A  student  boy,  who  dwelt  among  the  hills, 
Taught  her  of  love.     There  rose  an  ancient  tree. 
The  glory  of  their  humble  garden's  bound, 
Around  whose  rough  circumference  of  trunk 
A  garden-seat  was  wreathed ;  and  there  they  sat, 
Watching  gray-vested  twilight,  as  she  bore 
Such  gtfts  of  tender,  and  half-uttered  thought 
As  lovers  prize.     When  the  thin-blossomed  furze 
Gave  out  its  autumn  sweetness,  and  the  walls 
Of  that  low  cot,  with  the  red-berried  ash 
Kindled  in  pride,  they  parted ;  he  to  toil 
Amid  his  college  tasks,  and  she  to  weep. 

—  The  precious  scrolls,  that  with  his  ardent  heart 
So  faithfully  were  tinged,  unceasing  sought 

Her  hand,  and  o'er  their  varied  lines  to  pore 
Amid  his  absence,  was  her  chief  delight. 

—  At  length  they  came  not.     She  with  sleepless  eye, 
And  lip  that  every  morn  more  bloodless  grew, 
Demanded  them  in  vain.     And  then  the  tongue 

Of  a  hoarse  gossip  told  her,  he  was  dead: 
Drowned  in  the  deep,  and  dead! 

Her  young  heart  died 

Away  at  those  dread  sounds.     Her  upraised  eye 
Grew  large  and  wild,  and  never  closed  again. 
••  Hark  !  hark  !  he  calleth,  I  must  hence  away," 
She  murmured  oft,  but  faint  and  fainter  still, 
Nor  other  word  she  spake. 

And  so  she  died. 


164  PARTING   AND    DEATH. 

And  now  that  lonely  cottage  on  the  moor 
Hath  no  sweet  visitant  of  earthly  hope, 
To  cheer  its  toiling  inmates.     Habit-led, 
They  sow,  and  reap,  and  spread  the  daily  board, 
And  steep  their  bread  in  tears. 

God  grant  them  grace 

To  take  this  chastisement,  like  those  who  win 
A  more  enduring  mansion,  from  the  blast         * 
That  leaveth  house  and  home  so  desolate. 


CIIATSTVORTII  AND  IIADDON  HALL. 


OUR  morning  ride,  in  a  postchaise,  from  Sheffield, 
through  Edenson  and  the  adjacent  region  to  Chats- 
worth,  under  a  pure  autumnal  sky,  was  intensely  beau 
tiful.  We  were  scarcely  prepared  for  the  display  of 
taste  and  magnificence  that  burst  upon  us  at  the  last- 
named  princely  establishment  of  the  Duke  of  Devon 
shire.  It  seemed  a  hollow  square  of  nearly  two  hundred 
feet,  boldly  terraced,  and  was  approached  over  grad 
ually  rising  grounds.  From  an  eminence  towards  the 
east,  the  old  Hunting  Tower  held  forth  a  streaming 
flag,  as  an  announcement  that  the  master  of  this  unri 
valled  mansion  was  at  home.  Immediately  after  enter 
ing  the  central  gate,  by  the  porter's  lodge,  we  paused 
to  admire  a  fine  weeping  ash,  whose  rich,  dark  foliage, 
drooping  to  the  ground,  forms  within  its  circumference 
an  arch  of  exceeding  beauty.  It  was  removed  hither 
from  Derby,  about  ten  years  since,  at  an  expense  of 
£1,000;  and  though  it  had  attained  the  age  of  forty 
years  ere  its  transplantation,  flourishes  unchanged  in 
its  new  home.  Large  flocks  and  herds  luxuriate  in 
the  pastures,  and  deer,  so  fat  as  to  forfeit  a  portion  of 


166  CHATS  WORTH. 

their  fleetness,  embellish  the  parks.  The  grounds  of 
Chatsworth  cover  an  area  of  eleven  miles,  diversified 
by  lawns,  plantations,  and  pleasure-grounds.  The  spot 
called  the  Italian  Gardens,  is  adorned  with  statues, 
and  vases,  and  a  rich  stone  balustrade,  fronting  the 
Derwent. 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  attempt  a  description  of  this 
splendid  establishment.  Dazzled  as  the  eye  may  be 
with  its  internal  decorations,  I  could  not  but  consider 
the  conservatory  as  its  chief  glory.  It  extends  several 
hundred  feet,  its  lofty  roof  resting  on  iron  pillars,  and 
entirely  covered  with  large  plates  of  glass,  furnishing 
a  spacious  carriage-drive  through  plants  and  flowers 
from  every  region  of  the  earth.  Some  of  these  are  of 
surpassing  beauty,  and  all  refreshed  by  waters  artifi 
cially  distributed,  and  cheered  by  a  perpetual  summer, 
as  if  a  second  Paradise  fostered  their  bloom. 

In  the  sculpture-gallery  at  Chatsworth,  among  noble 
forms,  and  groups  apparently  instinct  with  life,  we 
were  attracted  by  the  statue  of  a  young  spinning-girl, 
from  the  chisel  of  a  German  artist.  She  is  called  the 
Filatrice,  and  stands  in  a  simple  and  graceful  attitude 
upon  the  fragment  of  a  granite  column,  brought  from 
the  Roman  forum.  Extensive  collections  of  paintings, 
engravings,  and  other  works  of  art,  enrich  this  re 
sidence,  as  they  do  also  that  at  Chiswick,  another  seat 
of  this  tasteful  and  liberal  nobleman,  where,  among 
other  antique  specimens  of  sculpture,  are  three  statues 
from  Adrian's  villa  at  Rome. 

It  is  well  to  see  Chatsworth  and  Haddon  Hall  in 


HADDON    HALL.  167 

the  same  day.  The  contrast  of  their  features  deepens 
the  impression  which  each  leaves  on  the  mind.  The 
overwhelming  splendor  of  one  prepares  you  to  relish 
and  to  reverence  the  silent,  mournful  majesty  of  the 
other.  You  pass  as  from  a  Roman  triumph,  to  Marius 
sitting  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage. 

This  touching  relic  of  the  olden  time  occupies  an 
elevation,  overshadowed  by  large  trees,  from  whence 
it  looks  down  upon  the  fair  valley  and  bright  waters  of 
the  Wye.  Its  most  ancient  portions  date  back  nine 
hundred  years,  into  the  Saxon  dynasty.  William,  the 
Norman,  who  was  liberal  in  parcelling  out  the  good 
things  of  the  conquered  realm  among  his  own  relatives 
and  adherents,  gave  it  to  his  natural  son,  Peveril. 
Thence,  by  marriage,  it  passed  to  the  Vernons,  and 
again,  in  the  same  manner,  to  the  house  of  Manners, 
who  now  hold  the  dukedom  of  Rutland.  In  exploring 
its  deserted  halls,  it  is  easy  to  scan  three  distinct  styles 
of  architecture,  which  as  clearly  define  three  differing 
states  of  social  and  domestic  manners.  The  tall  gray 
Eagle  Tower,  with  its  round  loopholes  and  prison-like 
apartments,  recalls  those  days  of  despotism  and  danger, 
when  castellated  buildings  were  fortresses  of  defence 
against  the  Danish  pirate,  or  the  roaming  outlaw.  This 
period  extended  from  the  close  of  the  Saxon  dynasty, 
through  the  reigns  of  some  of  the  Plantagenets,  while 
the  Peverils  and  Avenels  bore  rule  at  Haddon  Hall. 
Huge  fire-places,  immense  larders,  chopping-blocks  on 
which  a  whole  ox  might  be  laid,  heavy  oak  tables,  and 
the  old  wicket,  through  which  every  stranger  received, 


168  STATE    BED-ROOM. 

if  he  desired,  a  trencher  of  substantial  food  and  a  cup 
of  ale,  mark  the  succeeding  era  of  rude  feasting  and 
free  hospitality.  The  third  epoch  brought  in  the  more 
lofty  ceilings,  richly  gilt,  the  halls  panelled  with  oak, 
the  carved  cornices,  and  the  bay  windows,  decorated 
with  armorial  bearings. 

The  state  bed-room  at  Haddon  Hall  is  still  adorned 
with  ancient  hangings  of  Gobelines.  Their  subjects 
seem  to  be  taken  from  the  imagery  of  -ZEsop's  Fables. 
The  bed  is  surmounted  by  a  canopy  of  green  silk  vel 
vet,  fourteen  feet  in  height,  and  lined  with  thick,  white 
satin.  Its  embroidered  curtains  were  wrought  by  the 
needle  of  the  Lady  Eleanor,  wife  of  Sir  Eobert  Man 
ners,  and  are  a  commendable  trophy  of  her  industry. 
But  the  hands  of  pilferers  have  been  so  busy  in  ab 
stracting  shreds  and  fragments  of  this  rich,  antique 
couch,  that  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  protect  it  by 
an  enclosure,  something  like  the  railing  erected  around 
the  bed  of  Mary  of  Scotland,  in  the  old  Holyrood 
palace. 

The  various  improvements  made  by  the  houses  of 
Vernon  and  Manners  may  be  plainly  traced.  The  first 
of  these  obtained  possession  of  this  time-honored  struc 
ture  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  and  the  latter, 
during  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth)  So  liberal  was 
the  housekeeping  of  Haddon,  that  one  hundred  and 
forty  servants  were  employed  and  maintained  there  by 
the  first  duke  of  Rutland,  in  the  time  of  Queen  Anne. 
Now  all  is  silence  and  loneliness  within  its  bounds. 
Two  hundred  years  have  elapsed  since  it  was  inhab- 


CHATSWORTH    AXD    IIADDOX    HALL.  1 69 

ited.  But  the  late  Duchess  of  Rutland,  having  been 
much  attached  to  its  scenery,  was  solicitous  that  it 
should  be  kept  in  good  preservation,  as  a  specimen  of 
other  days.  Her  wishes  have  been  scrupulously  obey 
ed,  and  thus  the  antiquarian  taste,  and  the  reflecting 
mind,  continue  to  find  high  gratification  from  a  visit  to 
this  deserted  mansion. 


I  've  heard  the  humid  skies  did  ever  weep 
In  merry  England,  and  a  blink  of  joy 
From  their  blue  eyes  was  like  a  pearl  of  price. 
Mine  own,  indeed,  are  sunnier,  yet  at  times 
There  comes  a  day  so  exquisitely  fair, 
That  with  its  radiance  and  its  rarity 
It  makes  the  senses  giddy. 

Such  an  one 

Illumined  Chatsworth,  when  we  saw  it  first, 
Set  like  a  gem  against  the  hanging  woods 
That  formed  its  background.     Herds  of  graceful  deer, 
Pampered,  perchance,  until  they  half  forgot 
Their  native  fleetness,  o'er  the  ample  parks 
Roamed  at  their  pleasure.     From  the  tower  that  crests 
The  eastern  hill,  a  floating  banner  swayed 
With  the  light  breezes,  while  a  drooping  ash, 
Of  foliage  rich,  stood  lonely  near  the  gates, 
Like  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place, 
Uniquely  beautiful.     Their  silver  jet 
The  sparkling  fountains  o'er  the  freshened  lawns 
Threw  fitfully,  and  gleaming  here  and  there, 


170  CHATSWORTH   AND    HADDON   HALL. 

The  tenant-statues  with  their  marble  life 

Peopled  the  shades. 

But,  wondering  most,  we  marked 

A  princely  labyrinth  of  plants  and  flowers, 

All  palace-lodged,  and  breathing  forth  their  sweets 

On  an  undying  summer's  balmy  breast 

-1,1         „ ***  A     ifcjOIT    T  fl 


Yet  sinned  not,  fell  not,  and  whose  silent  speech 
Is  of  a  better  Paradise,  where  ye, 
Catching  the  essence  of  the  deathless  soul, 

Shall  never  fade. 

Throughout  the  noble  pile 

Pictures  and  spars  and  vases,  and  the  show 

Of  alabaster,  porphyry,  and  gold, 

Blend  with  a  lavishness  that  ne'er  offends 

The  eye  of  taste.     Had  I  the  skill  to  tell 

Featly  of  halls,  that  like  Arabia's  dream 

O'erflow  with  all  that  Fancy  can  devise, 

To  strike,  to  charm,  to  dazzle,  and  delight, 

Here  were  full  scope.     But  I  have  dwelt  too  long 

Within  a  simple  forest-land,  to  know 

The  fitting  terms  for  such  magnificence. 

So,  from  the  painted  ceilings,  and  the  light 

Of  costly  mirrors,  't  was  relief  to  seek 

The  shaded  gallery  of  sculptured  forms, 

And  taste  the  luxury  of  musing  thought. 

Spin  on,  most  beautiful ! 

There's  none  to  mock 


CIIATSWORTII   AND    IIADDOX   HALL.  171 

Thy  humble  labors  here.     Gay  Cupid  clasps 
The  unscathed  butterfly,  sweet  Hebe  smiles, 
Latona,  mid  her  children,  cries  to  Jove, 
Achilles  mourns  his  wound,  Endymion  sleeps, 
The  Mother  of  Napoleon  wears  the  grace 
Canova  gave,  and  proud  Borghesa  rears 
Her  head  in  majesty,  yet  none  despise 
Thy  lowly  toil. 

Even  thus  it  was  of  old, 
That  woman's  hand,  amid  the  elements 
Of  patient  industry,  and  household  good, 
Reproachless  wrought,  twining  the  slender  thread 
From  the  slight  distaff,  or  in  skilful  loom 
Weaving  rich  tissues,  or  with  varied  tints 
Of  bright  embroidery,  pleased  to  decorate 
The  mantle  of  her  lord.     And  it  was  well ; 
For  in  such  sheltered  and  congenial  sphere 
Content  with  duty  dwelt. 

Yet  few  there  were, 

Sweet  Filatrice,  who  in  their  homely  task 
Found  such  retreat  or  goodly  company, 
To  dignify  their  toils.     And  we,  who  roam 
Mid  all  this  grand  enchantment,  proud  saloon, 
And  solemn  chapel,  with  its  voice  of  God, 
Or  lose  ourselves  amid  the  wildering  maze 
Of  plants  and  buds  and  blossoms,  uttering  forth 
Mute  eloquence  to  Him,  are  pleased  to  lay 
Our  slight  memorial  at  thy  snowy  feet. 

Now,  on  to  Iladdon  Hall.     The  postern  low, 
And  threshold,  worn  with  tread  of  many  feet, 


172  CHATSWORTII    AND    HADDON   HALL. 

Receive  us  silently.     How  grim  and  gray 
Yon  tall,  steep  fortalice  above  us  towers  ! 
Its  narrow  apertures,  like  arrow-slits, 
Jealous  of  heaven's  sweet  air,  its  dreary  rooms 
Floored  with  rough  stones,  its  uncouth  passages 
Cut  in  thick  walls,  bespeak  those  iron  times 
Of  despotism,  when  o'er  the  mountain-surge 
Rode  the  fierce  sea-king,  and  the  robber  hedged 
The  chieftain  in  his  moat. 

A  freer  style 

Of  architecture,  clearly  as  a  chart, 
Defines  the  isthmus  of  that  middle  state, 
After  the  Conquest,  when  the  Saxon  kernes 
With  their  elf-locks  receded.     Coarsely  mixed, 
Norman  with  Gothic,  stretch  the  low-browed  halls, 
Their  open  rafters  brown  with  curling  smoke.    ' 
Hearthstone  and  larder,  as  for  giant  race, 
Tell  of  rude,  festal  doings,  when  in  state 
The  stalwart  baron,  seated  on  the  dais, 
Serf  and  retainer  fitly  ranged  around, 
Gave  hospitality  at  Christmas-tide  ;  — 
The  roasted  ox,  the  boar,  with  holly  crowned, 
And  mighty  venison  pasty,  proudly  borne 
'Tween  a  stout  brace  of  ancient  serving-men. 
The  elements  of  rude  and  gentle  times 
Were  ill  concocted  then,  and  struggling  held 
Each  other  in  suspension,  or  prevailed 
Alternately.     "  Barbaric  pearl  and  gold  " 
Were  roughly  set ;  and  cumbrous  arras  hid 
The  iron-hasped  and  loosely-bolted  doors. 
Broad-branching  antlers  of  the  stag  were  then 


CHATS  WORTH    AND    HADDON    HALL.  173 

The  choicest  pictures,  and  the  power  to  quaff 
Immense  potations  from  the  wassail-bowl 
Envied  accomplishment. 

But  Iladdon  tells 

Still  of  another  age,  and  suits  itself 
To  their  more  courtly  manners.     Carvings  rich, 
And  gilded  cornices,  and  chambers  hung 
With  tapestry  of  France,  and  shapely  grate 
Instead  of  chimney  vast,  and  fair  recess 
Of  oriel  window,  mark  the  advancing  steps 
Of  comfort  and  refinement. 

Here  moved  on, 

In  stately  minuet,  lords  with  doublet  slashed, 
And  ladies  rustling  in  the  stiff  brocade ; 
And  there,  the  deep-mouthed  hounds  the  chase  pursued, 
The  maiden  ruling  well  her  palfrey  white, 
With  knight  and  squire  attendant. 

Hear  we  not 
Even  now  their  prancing  steeds  ? 

'T  is  passing  strange  ! 
Dwell  death  and  life  in  mystic  company  ? 
Do  hands  invisible,  of  spectres  pale 
Tend  these  young  plants,  and  bind  yon  straggling  boughs 
In  beautiful  obedience  ? 

—  Come  they  back, 

From  their  old  mouldering  vaults,  when  none  are  near, 
And  with  their  spirit-eyes  inspect  the  flowers 
That  once  they  loved  ?     Toil  they  in  shadowy  ranks 
Mid  these  deserted  bowers,  then  flit  away  ? 


174  CHATS  WORTH   AND    H  ADD  ON   HALL. 

They  seem  but  just  to  have  set  the  goblet  down, 
As  for  a  moment,  yet  return  no  more. 
The  chair,  the  board,  the  couch  of  state  are  here, 
And  we,  the  intrusive  step  are  fain  to  check, 
As  though  we  pressed  upon  their  privacy. 
Whose  privacy  ?     The  dead?     A  riddle  all  ! 
Yea,  —  we  ourselves  are  riddles. 

While  we  cling 

Still  to  our  crumbling  hold,  so  soon  to  fall 
And  be  forgotten,  in  that  yawning  gulph 
That  whelms  all  past,  all  present,  all  to  come, 
Oh,  grant  us  wisdom,  Father  of  the  Soul, 
To  win  a  changeless  heritage  with  thee. 


MATLOCK. 


OUR  visit  to  Matlock  was  one  of  unmixed  satisfac 
tion.  We  had  not  been  instructed  to  expect  the  ro 
mantic  prospect  that  burst  upon  us,  almost  cheating  us 
into  the  belief  that  we  had  wandered  into  one  of  the 
wild  villages  of  Switzerland.  Our  descent  from  the 
postchaise  was  simultaneous  with  taking  a  seat  upon 
some  well-bred  donkeys,  which,  with  their  necks  deco 
rated  with  blue  ribbands,  were  standing  under  the 
windows  of  our  hotel  upon  the  green.  The  excitement 
of  thus  traversing  the  mountain-heights,  and  the  odd 
appearance  of  our  cavalcade,  so  grotesquely  mounted, 
each  steed  occasionally  urged  onward  by  the  voice  or 
staff  of  the  guides,  afforded  us  much  amusement.  Af 
terwards  our  walks  and  purchases  among  the  shops, 
where  the  rich  Derbyshire  spars  are  presented  in  an 
endless  variety  of  articles  for  ornament  and  utility,  the 
enchanting  prospects  that  met  us  at  every  turn,  and 
the  bright  sunny  skies  that  cheered  us  during  our 
whole  stay  in  Matlock,  made  our  time  there  glide  away 
as  a  fairy  dream. 

One  of  our  entertainments  was  to  climb  a  steep  hill, 


WILLERSLY    CASTLE. 


to  four  hundred  beneath  the  surface.     A  le=s  labo 


the  architect  of  his  own  fortune. 


was 


"pan  ofMs  character,  he  endowed  and  hefn  to  ^ 
a  beautiful  stone  chapel  in  the  v^mUy  of  the  .stle. 
Dying  before  its  completion,  it  was  flushed  by  h.s  son 
whom  he  left  one  of  the  richest  commoners  m  Eng 


MAI-LOCK.  177 

land.  The  charity  schools  connected  with  it,  and  which 
number  several  hundred  scholars,  are  also  kept  up  en 
tirely  at  his  expense  ;  and  it  gave  us  pleasure  to  find 
that  the  ladies  of  the  family  took  personal  interest  in 
them.  The  elevation  of  industry  and  merit  from 
obscurity,  and  their  union  with  an  active  benevolence 
and  piety,  which  we  have  so  often  been  permitted  to 
see  in  our  own  dear  land,  seemed,  if  possible,  to  become 
a  still  more  beautiful  lesson,  amid  the  aspiring  rocks 
and  romantic  glens  of  Derbyshire. 


It  would  be  most  ungrateful  not  to  speak, 
Matlock  !  of  thee.     Thy  dwellings  mid  the  cliffs, 
Like  a  Swiss  village,  or  the  hanging  nest 
Of  the  wild  bird, — thy  fairy  glens  scooped  out 
From  the  deep  jaws  of  mountain  fastnesses,  — 
Thy  pure,  pure  air,  —  the  luxury  of  thy  baths,  — 
Thy  donkey-rides  amid  the  pine-clad  hills, 
Or  o'er  the  beetling  brow  of  bold  Masson, 
Spying,  perchance,  in  some  close-sheltered  nook 
The  pale  lutea  and  red  briony, 
Or  infant  waterfall,  that  leaps  to  cast 
Its  thread  of  silver  to  the  vales  below,  — 
Thy  long  and  dark  descents  to  winding  caves, 
Where  sleep  the  sparkling  spars,  —  the  thousand  forms 
Which  art  doth  give  them  to  allure  the  eye, 
And  decorate  the  mansion,  —  lamp,  and  vase, 
And  pedestal,  and  toy,  —  these  all  conspire 
12 


178  MATLOCK. 

In  sweet  confusion  to  imprint  thee  deep 
On  memory's  page. 

But  when  the  thunder  rolls, 
Yon  silent  cliffs  forget  their  quietude, 
And  like  the  watchman,  when  the  foe  is  near, 
Shout  to  each  other. 

Every  rifted  peak 

Takes  up  the  battle-cry,  and  volleying  pours 
Reverberated  peals,  till  the  hoarse  cloud 
Expends  its  vengeance,  and,  exhausted,  sweeps 
O'er  the  unanswering  dales. 

See  where  yon  rocks, 

Fretted  and  ribbed  as  if  the  storms  had  snatched 
The  sculptor's  chisel,  and  amid  their  freaks 
Channelled  and  grooved  and  wrought  without  a  plan, 
Lift  their  worn  frontals.     Here  and  there,  the  trees 
Insert  themselves  perforce,  against  the  will 
Of  the  stern  crags,  by  coarse  and  scanty  earth 
Nurtured  in  contumacy,  while  the  blasts 
Do  sorely  wrench  and  warp  them,  well  resolved 
To  punish  such  usurpers :  —  still  they  cling 
And  gather  vigor  from  adversity. 
On,  —  by  those  crevice-holders  to  the  lawns 
Of  Willersly,  and  to  its  garden-heights, 
And  gaze,  astonished,  on  the  scene  below. 

Lo  !  with  what  haste  the  full-orbed  Moon  doth  steal 
Close  on  the  footsteps  of  departing  day, 
Eager  to  greet  the  landscape  that  she  loves. 
Strong  Derwent  murmurs  at  the  intrusive  shades 


MATLOCK.  179 

That  fringe  his  banks  to  shut  him  from  her  smile, 
And  higher  as  her  queenly  car  ascends, 
Outspreads  a  broader  bosom  to  her  beam. 
Most  beautiful !     It  fits  not  speech  like  mine, 
Soul-stirring  scene,  to  set  thy  features  forth 
In  their  true  light.     I  have  no  hues  that  reach 
Glories  like  thine.     The  watery  tint  alone 
That  moisteneth  in  the  eye,  doth  tell  of  thee. 

Yet  should  I  ever,  from  my  distant  home 
Tempted  to  roam,  dare  the  wild  deep  once  more 
For  Albion's  sake,  —  I  'd  watch  two  summer-moons 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  the  purple  peaks 
Of  Derbyshire,  and  from  the  sounding  brass 
And  tinkling  cymbal  of  absorbing  care 
Or  vanity,  and  from  the  thunder-gong 
"Which  the  great  world  doth  strike,  delighted  hide 
In  quiet  Matlock,  lulled  by  Nature's  charms, 
And  hourly  gleaning  what  she  saith  of  God. 


THE  SLEEPING   SISTEKS, 


IN  THE  LICHFIELD  CATHEDRAL. 


HUSH  !  hush !  tread  lightly,  't  were  not  meet 

So  sweet  a  dream  to  break, 
Or  from  that  tender,  clasping  hand 

One  snowdrop  leaflet  shake, 

Or  drive  away  the  angel  smile, 

That  lights  each  gentle  face, 
For  waking  life  would  surely  fail 

To  yield  so  pure  a  grace. 

Hear'st  thou  their  breathing,  as  they  sleep 

On  pillow  lightly  prest  ? 
Is  aught  on  earth  so  calm  and  deep 

As  childhood's  balmy  rest  ? 

A  quiet  couch  those  sisters  find 
Within  these  hallowed  walls 


CHANTIIKY'S  SCULPTURE.  181 

Where  shaded  light  through  storied  pane 
In  solemn  tinture  falls, 

Tracing  our  Lord's  ascending  flight 

I'p  to  his  glorious  throne. 
Who  took  the  guileless  in  His  arms, 

And  blest  them  as  His  own. 

0  beautiful !  —  but  where  the  soul 

In  Paradise  doth  walk, 
There  springeth  up  no  angry  blast 

To  bow  the  floweret's  stalk, 

There  springeth  up  no  cloud  to  mar 

Affection  pure  and  free, 
And  blessed  as  this  peaceful  sleep, 

Such  may  their  waking  be. 

The  sculpture  of  Chantrey  has  seldom  been  more 
touchingly  exhibited  than  in  the  statues  of  two  sleeping 
<isters,  the  only  children  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Robinson,  for 
merly  a  prebendary  of  Lichfield  Cathedral.  They  are 
entwined  in  each  other's  arms,  the  youngest  holding  in 
her  hand  a  few  snowdrops.  Their  forms  are  of  perfect 
proportion,  and  every  muscle  seems  wrapped  in  deep 
repose.  You  touch  the  pillow,  ere  you  are  convinced 
that  it  is  not  downy,  and  the  sweep  of  the  mattress, 
and  the  light  folds  of  their  graceful  drapery,  are  all 
admirably  chiselled  out  of  a  single  block  of  the  purest 
marble.  The  epitaph  is  in  harmony  with  the  beauty 
and  pathos  of  the  monument. 


182  ASIIBURTON    CHURCH. 

"  Ellen  Jane,  and  Marianna, 

Only  Children 

of  the  late  Rev.  William  Eobinson, 
and  Ellen  Jane,  his  Wife. 
Their  affectionate  Mother, 

In  fond  remembrance  of  their  heaven-loved  innocence. 
Consigns  their  remembrance  to  this  Sanctuary. 

In  humble  gratitude 

For  the  glorious  assurance,  that 

"  Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  God" 

This  exquisite  work  of  genius  is  placed  under  the 
beautiful  eastern  window  of  stained  glass,  in  the  south 
choral  aisle,  in  Lichfield  Cathedral.  Somewhat  simi 
lar  in  its  effect  on  the  feelings  is  a  monument  in 
Ashbourne  Church,  to  the  only  daughter  of  Sir  Brooke 
Boothbj,  a  child  of  five  years  of  age.  On  a  low  white 
marble  pedestal  is  a  mattress,  where  the  little  sufferer 
reclines,  her  sweet  face  expressive  both  of  pain  and 
patience.  Her  beautiful  hands,  clasped  together,  rest 
near  her  head.  The  only  drapery  is  a  frock,  flowing 
loosely,  and  a  sash,  whose  knot  is  twisted  forward,  as 
in  the  restlessness  of  disease.  You  imagine  that  she- 
has  just  turned,  in  the  tossings  of  fever,  to  seek  a  cooler 
spot  on  her  pillow,  or  an  easier  position  for  her  wearied 
form.  The  inscription  is  in  four  languages  ;  — 

To  Penelope, 
Only  child  of  Sir  Brooke  and  Susanna  Boothby. 

She  was  in  form  and  intellect  most  exquisite. 

The  unfortunate  parents  confided  their  all  to  this  frail  bark, 

And  the  wreck  was  total. 

I  was  not  in  safety  ;  neither  had  I  rest ; 

Neither  was  I  quiet; 
And  this  trouble  came. 


SIR    BROOKE    BOOTIIBY.  183 

The  bereaved  father  was  one  of  the  benefactors  of 
Lichfield  Cathedral,  and  a  testimony  is  there  recorded 
to  the  zeal  and  generosity  with  which  he  obtained  for  it, 
in  1802,  while  travelling  in  Germany,  specimens  of 
the  most  splendid  stained  glass,  executed  in  the  six 
teenth  century,  illustrating  a  variety  of  Scripture  sub 
jects,  and  sufficient  to  fill  seven  large  windows.  This 
Cathedral,  and  its  monuments,  seemed  in  a  state  of 
good  preservation,  and  many  of  its  epitaphs  were  of 
singular  excellence.  Among  the  latter  we  noticed  one 
to  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  accompanied  by  a  marble  bust 
of  the  great  man,  whose  nativity  Lichfield  is  proud  to 
claim. 


STRATFORD  UPON  AVON. 


MANY  circumstances  conspired  to  make  our  visit  to 
Stratford  upon  Avon  one  of  peculiar  interest.  We  had 
the  finest  autumnal  weather,  and  so  perfect  a  full  moon, 
that  our  researches  could  be  continued  in  the  evening, 
almost  as  well  as  during  the  day. 

Among  the  buildings  which  we  noticed  in  our  excur 
sions,  were  some  in  the  cottage  style,  tastefully  adorned, 
and  of  graceful  proportions.  Near  the  church  where 
Shakspeare's  dust  reposes,  we  observed  a  pleasant, 
commodious  mansion,  devoted  to  the  instruction  of 
young  ladies,  and  met  several  classes  of  them  returning 
from  their  walk,  a  bright-browed  and  apparently 
happy  throng.  Methought  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
might  be  sweet,  amid  such  localities  and  associations. 

But  among  the  most  interesting  features  of  our  visit 
to  Stratford  upon  Avon,  were  the  services  of  the  Sab 
bath  in  this  same  old  church.  The  approach  to  it  is 
through  a  long  green  vista,  the  trees  having  been  trained 
while  young  to  bend  and  interlace  their  branches.  The 
Avon  flows  by  its  walls,  and  as  we  wandered  on  its 
green  margin,  a  chime,  softened  by  distance,  was  borne 


GRAVE    OF    SHAKSPEARE.  185 

over  its  peaceful  waters,  with  thrilling  melody.  A 
grove  of  young  willows  is  planted  here,  and  all  that  is 
picturesque  in  the  village  seems  to  be  concentrated  in 
this  vicinity.  The  inroads  of  time  upon  the  church 
have  been  carefully  repaired,  and  its  interior  is  agreea 
ble.  It  has  some  stately  monuments,  and  the  archi 
tecture  of  the  chancel  is  symmetrical.  The  celebrated 
bust  of  Shakspeare  is  near  it,  in  a  niche  upon  the 
northern  wall.  A  cushion  is  before  it,  the  right  hand 
holds  a  pen,  and  the  left  a  scroll.  The  forehead  is 
high  and  noble,  and  as  the  likeness  was  executed  soon 
after  his  death,  it  may  be  supposed  to  convey  some  cor 
rect  resemblance  of  his  countenance.  It  was  formerly 
in  bright  colors,  but  is  now  covered  with  a  coat  of 
white  paint.  Not  far  from  it  is  the  spot  where  his 
ashes  rest,  with  the  quaint  adjuration ; 

"  Good  friend,  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  enclosed  here ; 
Blest  be  the  man  that  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Near  him  his  wife  reposes,  with  a  Latin  inscription 
on  a  small  metalic  tablet.  On  the  tomb  of  their  daugh 
ter  Susannah,  the  wife  of  John  Hall,  who  died  in  1649, 
at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  the  following  epitaph  was  for 
merly  legible:  — 

"  Witty  above  her  sex,  but  that 's  not  all, 
Wi-e  to  salvation,  was  good  Mistress  Hall; 
Something  of  Shakspeare  was  in  that,  but  this 
Was  of  that  Lord,  with  whom  she  's  now  in  bliss  ; 


186  BREAD    TO    THE    POOR. 

Oh  passenger !  hast  ne'er  a  tear 
To  weep  for  her  who  wept  with  all  ? 

Who  wept,  yet  set  herself  to  cheer 
Them  up  with  comfort's  cordial  ? 

Her  love  shall  live,  her  mercy  spread, 

When  thou  hast  ne'er  a  tear  to  shed." 

With  our  feet  resting  almost  on  the  very  spot  where 
the  remains  of  the  great  poet  slumber,  we  listened  to 
the  sacred  services  of  the  Church,  and  to  three  ser 
mons,  from  three  different  clergymen.  In  the  first  we 
were  reminded  of  the  love  of  the  Redeemer,  from  the 
text,  "  Draw  us,  and  we  will  run  after  thee ;"  —  in  the 
second,  of  the  necessity  of  repentance,  from  the  warn 
ing  of  Ezekiel,  "  I  have  no  pleasure  in  the  death  of 
him  that  dieth,  saith  the  Lord ;  wherefore  turn  your 
selves  and  live  ye  ; "  —  and  in  the  last,  at  evening,  of 
the  duty  and  privilege  of  mental  communion  with  the 
Father  of  our  spirits,  from  the  injunction,  "  Continue 
in  prayer." 

At  the  close  of  the  services  in  the  afternoon,  we  saw 
what  was  then  to  us  a  new  scene,  — the  distribution  of 
bread  to  the  poor.  It  is  not  uncommon  for  benevolent 
persons  to  leave  legacies  for  this  form  of  charity.  It 
was  touching  to  see  what  numbers  pressed  forward  to 
present  a  ticket,  and  receive  their  share.  The  greater 
part  of  the  recipients  were  aged  and  decrepit,  or  else 
appeared  to  be  the  parents  of  large  families  ;  and  the 
eyes  of  many  a  child  fixed  earnestly  upon  the  fair 
wheaten  loaves  which  were  dealt  out,  and  from  which 
it  was  doubtless  expecting  to  make  its  evening  meal. 


QUAINT    EPITAPH.  187 

After  witnessing  this  act  of  bounty,  and  hoping  that  in 
the  comfort  it  communicated,  the  living  bread  by  which 
the  soul  is  nourished  might  not  be  forgotten,  we  took 
a  walk  in  the  green  and  quiet  churchyard.  Among 
the  antique  tombstones,  was  one  of  a  coarse,  brown 
material,  wrought  into  a  double  head,  and  commemo 
rating,  in  parallel  lines,  the  birth  and  death  of  two 
females,  the  singular  construction  and  orthography  of 
whose  epitaph  is  here  transcribed  :  — 

"  Death  creeps  abought  on  hard, 
And  steals  abroad  on  seen, 
Ilur  darts  arc  suding  and  hur  arows  Keen, 
Hur  Strocks  are  deadly,  com  they  soon  or  late, 
"\Vlan  being  Strock,  Repentance  is  to  late, 
Death  is  a  minut,  full  of  suding  sorrow, 
Then  Live  to  day,  as  thou  may'st  dy  to  Morrow. 
Anno  Domony,  1690." 

The  native  place  of  Shakspeare  is  not  strikingly  pic 
turesque,  and  the  habitudes  of  its  people  reveal  no  dis 
tinctive  character.  We  fancied  that  the  urchins  playing 
about  the  streets  were  somewhat  more  noisy  and  in 
subordinate  than  English  children  are  wont  to  be. 
Possibly  they  were  striving  to  be  like  the  renowned 
bard,  in  those  points  of  character  most  easily  imitable. 
His  name  is  in  almost  every  mouth,  and  you  can 
scarcely  turn  a  corner  but  what  some  vestige  of  him 
meets  the  eye.  It  would  seem  that  he,  who  through 
out  life  was  the  least  ambitious,  the  most  careless  about 
his  fame,  of  all  distinguished  men,  was,  by  the  very  echo 


188  POWER    OF    GENIUS. 

of  that  fame,  after  the  lapse  of  centuries,  to  give  the 
chief  impulse  to  some  five  or  six  thousand  persons, 
dwelling  on  the  spot  where  he  first  drew  breath.  There 
are  the  Shakspeare  relics,  the  Shakspeare  statue,  the 
Shakspeare  Theatre,  the  Shakspeare  Hotel,  the  Shaks 
peare  bust,  the  Shakspeare  tomb  ;  —  everybody  tells 
you  of  them,  —  everybody  is  ready  to  rise,  and  run, 
and  show  them  to  the  stranger.  The  ancient  house 
and  chamber  where  he  was  born,  are  humble  even  to 
meanness.  Yet  walls,  and  ceilings,  and  casketed  albums 
are  written  over,  and  re-written,  with  the  names  of  pil 
grim  visitants  from  various  climes,  —  princes,  nobles, 
poets,  philosophers,  and  sages. 


What  nurtured  Shakspeare  mid  these  village  shades, 
Making  a  poor  deer-stalking  lad,  a  king 
In  the  broad  realm  of  mind  ? 

I  questioned  much 

Whatever  met  my  view,  the  holly-hedge, 
The  cottage-rose,  the  roof  where  he  was  born, 
And  the  pleached  avenue  of  limes,  that  led 
To  the  old  church.     And  pausing  there,  I  marked 
The  mossy  efflorescence  on  the  stones, 
Which,  kindling  in  the  sunbeam,  taught  me  how 
Its  little  seeds  were  fed  by  mouldering  life, 
And  how  another  race  of  tiny  roots, 
The  fathers  of  the  future,  should  compel 
From  hardest-hearted  rocks  a  nutriment, 
Until  the  fern-plant  and  the  ivy  sere 


SIIAKSPEARE.  189 

Made  ancient  buttress  and  grim  battlement 
Their  nursing-mothers. 

But  again  I  asked, 

"  "What  nurtured  Shakspeare  ?  "     The  rejoicing  birds 
Wore  a  wild  song,  whose  burden  seeijied  to  be, 
He  was  their  pupil  when  he  chose,  and  knew 
Their  secret  maze  of  melody  to  wind, 
Snatching  its  sweetness  for  his  winged  strain 
With  careless  hand. 

The  timid  flowrets  said, 
"  lie  came  among  us  like  a  sleepless  bee, 
And  all  those  pure  and  rarest  essences, 
Concocted  by  our  union  with  the  skies, 
Which  in  our  cups  or  zones  we  fain  would  hide, 
He  rifled  for  himself  and  bore  away." 

—  The  winds,  careering  in  their  might,  replied, 
"  Upon  our  wings  he  rode,  and  visited 
The  utmost  stars.     We  could  not  shake  him  off. 
Even  on  the  fleecy  clouds  he  laid  his  hand, 
As  on  a  courser's  mane,  and  made  them  work 
With  all  their  countless  hues  his  wondrous  will." 

And  then  meek  Avon  raised  a  murmuring  voice, 
What  time  the  Sabbath-chimes  came  pealing  sweet 
Through  the  umbrageous  trees,  and  told  how  oft 
Along  those  banks  he  wandered,  pacing  slow, 
As  if  to  read  the  depths. 

Ere  I  had  closed 
My  questioning,  the  ready  rain  came  down, 


190  SHAKSPEAKE. 

And  every  pearl-drop,  as  it  kissed  the  turf, 
Said,  "  We  have  been  his  teachers.     When  we  fell 
Pattering  among  the  vine-leaves,  he  would  list 
Our  lessons  as  a  student,  nor  despise 
Our  simplest  lore." 

And  then  the  bow  burst  forth,  — 
That  strong  love-token  of  the  Deity 
Unto  a  drowning  world.     Each  prismed  ray 
Had  held  bright  dalliance  with  the  bard,  and  helped 
To  tint  the  woof  in  which  his  thought  was  wrapped 
For  its  first  cradle-sleep. 

Next,  twilight  came 
In  her  gray  robe,  and  told  a  tender  tale 
Of  his  low  musings,  while  she  noiseless  drew 
Her  quiet  curtain.     And  the  queenly  moon, 
Riding  in  state  upon  her  silver  car, 
Confessed    she    saw    him    oft,    through    chequering 

shades, 

Hour  after  hour,  with  Fancy  by  his  side, 
Linking  their  young  imaginings,  like  chains 
Of  pearl  and  diamond. 

Last,  the  lowly  grave,  — 

Shakspeare's  own  grave,  —  sent  forth  a  hollow  tone, 
—  "  The  heart  within  my  casket  read  itself, 
And  from  that  inward  study  learned  to  scan 
The  hearts  of  other  men.     It  pondered  long 
In  those  lone  cells,  where  nameless  thought  is  born, 
Explored  the  roots  of  passion,  and  the  founts 
Of  sympathy,  and  at  each  sealed  recess 


SHAKSPEARE.  191 

Knocked,  until  mystery  fled.     Hence  her  loved  bard 
Nature  doth  crown  with  flowers  of  every  hue 
And  every  season  ;  yea,  the  human  soul 
Owning  his  power,  shall,  at  his  magic  touch, 
Shudder,  or  thrill,  while  age  on  age  expires." 


WARWICK  CASTLE. 


IN  our  explorations  of  the  pleasant  town  of  War 
wick,  we  were  much  interested  in  visiting  St.  Mary's 
Church,  a  venerable  structure,  whose  foundation  claims 
the  antiquity  of  a  Saxon  origin.  It  is  built  in  the 
form  of  a  cross,  and  its  proportions  are  symmetrical. 
"  You  '11  see  the  Beechem  tombs,  sure  ! "  said  our 
guide,  leading  the  way  to  an  adjoining  edifice.  I 
scarcely  knew,  from  his  mode  of  pronunciation,  that  he 
meant  the  Beauchamp  chapel,  the  most  stately  and 
costly  one  in  the  kingdom,  with  the  exception  of  that 
of  Henry  the  Seventh,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Its 
entrance  is  through  an  ornamented  vestibule,  the  rich 
ness  of  its  painted  glass  is  striking,  and  many  of  its 
monuments  elaborate.  Near  the  northern  wall  is  the 
tomb  of  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  the  favorite 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  her  host  during  the  princely 
festivities  of  Kenilworth,  when  for  seventeen  days  the 
hand  of  the  great  clock  at  the  castle  was  ever  pointing 
to  the  hour  of  banquet.  There,  also,  slumber  the  re 
mains  of  his  countess,  under  the  same  gorgeous  canopy 
with  himself,  supported  by  Corinthian  columns.  Poor 


RICHARD    BEACCHAMP.  193 

Amy  Robsart !  how  instinctively  turns  the  heart  to 
thee,  and  to  the  fearful  secrets  of  Cumnor  Hall.  Near 
the  southern  wall  of  the  chapel  are  entombed  the  re 
mains  of  his  infant  son,  "  the  noble  Impe,  Robert  of 
Dudley,  Baron  of  Denbigh,"  and  heir  presumptive  to 
the  earldom  of  Warwick.  In  the  centre  is  the  monu 
ment  of  its  founder,  Richard  Beauchamp,  the  great 
Earl  of  Warwick,  who  held  oiRces  of  the  highest  trust 
and  power  under  Henry  the  Fourth  and  Fifth,  and 
conducted  the  education  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  During 
the  exercise  of  his  office,  as  Regent  of  France,  he  died 
at  Rouen,  in  1 439,  and  his  body  was  brought  over  in 
a  stone  coffin  for  interment  here.  The  monument  dis 
plays  his  recumbent  statue  in  fine  brass,  clad  in  a  full 
suit  of  plate  armor.  In  a  curious  old  biography  of 
him,  it  is  told  how  "  erle  Richard  by  the  auctoritie  of 
the  hole  parliament  was  maister  to  king  Henrie  the 
Cth,  and  so  he  contynowed  till  the  yonge  king  was 
1 G  yere  of  age."  A  drawing  in  the  same  book  repre 
sents  him  in  his  robes  and  coronet,  taking  the  infant 
monarch  from  his  nurse's  arms, —  the  Queen  and  Bishop 
of  Winchester  standing  by  with  sorrowful  countenances. 
The  round,  unthinking  face  of  the  boy  expresses  no 
sympathy  in  their  regret;  though  he  probably  soon 
learned  to  realize  the  contrast  between  the  delights  of 
the  royal  nursery,  and  the  training  of  his  stately  tutor, 
who,  we  learn  frorn^  history,  insisted  peremptorily  on 
the  privilege  of  inflicting  personal  chastisement,  and 
subjected  his  pupil  to  many  severe  restrictions.  This 
iron  rule  pressed  heavily  upon  the  weak  mind  of  the 
13 


194  ANTIQUE    VASE. 

unfortunate  Henry,  whose  touching  epitaph  at  "Windsor 
cannot  be  read  without  pity. 

"  Here,  o'er  the  ill-fated  king  the  marble  weeps, 
And  fast  beside  him  vengeful  Edward  sleeps, 
Whom  not  the  extended  Albion  could  contain. 
Erom  old  Belerium  to  the  northern  main, 
The  grave  unites  ;  where  even  the  great  find  rest. 
And  blended  lie  the  oppressor  and  the  opprest." 

Warwick  Castle  looks  down  upon  the  Avon  at  its 
base,  with  true  baronial  dignity.  The  gray -haired  por 
ter,  at  its  embattled  gateway,  seemed  to  show,  with 
pride,  the  gigantic  armor,  and  other  relics,  of  Guy  of 
"Warwick,  and  to  speak  of  his  marvellous  feats  and 
redoubtable  valor. 

Among  these,  his  having  slain  a  Saracen  giant,  and 
a  wonderful  dun  cow,  were  not  forgotten.  u  Here," 
said  the  narrator,  "  is  his  seething  pot.  It  holds  ex 
actly  102  gallons."  And,  warming  as  he  proceeded,  he 
told  how,  when  the  son  of  the  present  earl  came  of 
age,  it  was  thrice  filled  with  punch,  and  how,  at  each 
precious  concoction,  eighteen  gallons  of  brandy,  eigh 
teen  of  spirit,  and  one  hundred  pounds  of  sugar  were 
consumed. 

In  the  greenhouse  we  were  gratified  by  seeing  the 
celebrated  antique  vase,  found  at  the  bottom  of  a  lake, 
in  the  villa  of  the  Emperor  Adrian,  near  Tivoli.  It 
is  of  white  marble,  and  among  the  finest  specimens  of 
ancient  sculpture.  Vine  branches,  exquisitely  wrought, 
form  its  handles,  and  grapes,  leaves,  and  tendrils,  clus- 


VANDYKE'S  PICTURE.  195 

ter  gracefully  around  its  brim.  It  stands  upon  a  pe 
destal,  with  a  Latin  inscription,  and  was  originally 
purchased  by  Sir  William  Hamilton,  and  afterwards 
by  the  late  Earl  of  Warwick. 

Among  the  pictures  in  Warwick  Castle  is  a  grand 
one  of  Charles  the  First,  by  Vandyke.  The  king  in 
armor  is  seated  on  a  gray  horse,  so  majestic,  yet  so 
melancholy,  that  you  almost  imagine  him  endued  with 
a  prophetic  spirit,  and  in  the  midst  of  regal  grandeur 
saddened  by  his  future  fate.  Bernard  de  Foix,  Duke 
of  Espernon  and  Valette,  holds  his  helmet  as  a  page. 
Vandyke  executed  three  splendid  equestrian  paintings 
of  this  monarch.  The  other  two  are  at  Hampton 
Court  and  Windsor  Castle. 


Stout  Guy  of  Warwick,  may  we  pass  unharmed 
Thy  wicket-gate  ?     And  wilt  thou  not  come  forth 
With  thy  gigantic  mace  to  break  our  bones, 
Nor  seethe  us  in  thy  caldron,  whence  of  yore 
The  blood-red  pottage  flowed  ? 

A  glorious  haunt 

Thy  race  have  had  'neath  these  luxuriant  shades 
From  age  to  age.     Around  the  mighty  base 
Of  their  time-honored  castle,  lifting  high 
Rampart  and  tower  and  battlement  sublime, 
Winds  the  soft-flowing  Avon,  pleased  to  clasp 
An  infant  islet  in  her  nursing  arms. 
Anon  her  meek  mood  changes,  and  in  sport 
She  leaps  with  frolic  foot  from  rock  to  rock, 


196  WARWICK    CASTLE. 

Taking  a  wild  dance  on  their  pavement  rude ; 
Then  half  complaining,  half  in  merriment, 
Resumes  her  quiet  way. 

Would  that  I  knew 
The  very  turret  in  this  ancient  pile, 
Where  the  sixth  Henry  had  his  tuteluge, 
Wearing  with  tasks  ten  tedious  years  away. 
The  mother's  tear  was  on  his  rounded  cheek, 
When  stately  Beauchamp  took  him  from  her  arms, 
An  infant  of  five  summers,  to  enforce 
His  knightly  training.     Pressed  the  iron  hand 
Of  chivalry  all  harshly  on  his  soul, 
Keeping  its  pulses  down,  till  the  free  stream 
Of  thought  was  paralyzed  ?     Perchance  the  sway 
Of  such  stern  tutor  might  have  bowed  too  low 
What  was  too  weak  at  first ;   and  so,  poor  king, 
Thou  wert  in  vassalage  thy  whole  life  long, 
The  scorn  of  lawless  spirits  —  on  thy  brow 
Wearing  a  crown  indeed,  but  in  thy  breast 
Hiding  the  slave-chain. 

In  yon  lofty  hall, 

Hung  round  with  ancient  armor,  interspersed 
With  branching  antlers  of  the  hunted  stag, 
Fancy  depictureth  a  warrior-shade, 
The  swarth  king-maker,  he  who  bore  so  high 
His  golden  coronet,  and  on  his  shield 
The  Bear  and  ragged  Staff.     At  his  rough  grasp 
The  warring  roses  quaked ;  and  like  the  foam 
That  crests  the  wave  one  moment,  and  the  next 
Dies  at  its  feet,  alternate  rose  and  sank 


AVAR  WICK    CASTLE.  197 

The  crowned  heads  of  York  and  Lancaster. 

—  Gone  are  those  days  with  all  their  deeds  of  arms. 

Their  clangor  echoing  loud  from  shore  to  shore, 

Rousing  the  "  shepherd-maiden  "  from  her  flocks 

To  buckle  on  strange  armor  and  preserve 

The  endangered  Gallic  throne. 

With  traveller's  glance 

We  turned  from  Warwick's  castellated  dome, 
Wrapped  in  its  cloud  of  rich  remembrances, 
And  took  our  pilgrim  way.     There  many  a  trait 
Of  rural  life  we  gathered  up,  to  fill 
The  outline  of  our  picture,  shaded  strong 
By  the  dark  pencil  of  old  feudal  times. 

We  saw  a  rustic  household  wandering  forth 
That  cloudless  afternoon,  perchance  to  make 
Some  visit  promised  long,  for  each  was  clad 
With  special  care,  as  on  a  holiday. 
The  father  bore  the  baby  awkwardly 
In  his  coarse  arms,  like  tool  or  burden  used 
About  his  work,  yet  kindly  bent  him  down 
To  hear  its  little  murmur  of  delight. 
With  a  more  practised  hand  the  mother  led 
One  who  could  scarcely  totter,  its  small  feet 
Patting  unequally,  —  from  side  to  side 
Its  rotund  body  balancing.     Alone, 
Majestic  in  an  added  year,  walked  on 
Between  the  groups  another  ruddy  one. 
She  faltereth  at  the  stile,  but  being  raised 
And  set  upon  the  green  sward,  how  she  shouts, 


198  WARWICK    CASTLE. 

Curvets,  and  gambols  like  a  playful  fawn, 

Plucking  with  pride  and  wonder,  here  and  there, 

Herbling  or  flower,  o'er  which  the  infant  crows 

One  moment,  and  the  next,  with  chubby  hand 

Rendeth  in  pieces  like  a  conqueror. 

On  went  the  cottage-group,  and  then  there  came 

A  poor  old  man,  unaided  and  alone, 

Clad  in  his  almshouse  garments.     Slow  he  moved 

And  painfully,  nor  sought  the  human  eye 

As  if  expectant  of  its  sympathy. 

He  hath  no  children  in  his  face  to  smile, 

No  friend  to  take  him  by  the  withered  hand, 

Yet  looketh  upward,  and  his  feeble  heart 

"Warms  in  the  pleasant  sunshine. 

Yea,  look  up  !  — 

The  world  hath  dealt  but  harshly,  and  old  Time, 
That  cunning  foe,  hath  all  thy  nerves  unstrung, 
And  made  thy  thin  blood  wintry.     Yet  look  up ;  - 
The  pure,  pure  air  is  thine,  the  sun  is  thine, 
And  thou  shalt  rise  above  them,  if  thy  soul 
Cling  to  its  Saviour's  skirts.     So  be  not  sad 
Or  desolate  in  spirit,  but  hold  on 
A  Christian's  faithful  journey  to  the  land 
Where  palsied  limbs  and  wrinkles  are  unknown. 


KENILWORTII. 


A  DRIVE  of  five  miles  brought  us  from  TYarwick  to 
Kcnihvorth.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that  the 
ruinous,  yet  still  beautiful  castle,  constitutes  its  sole 
claim  to  celebrity.  Amid  this  antique  edifice,  vestiges 
still  remain  of  the  portions  erected  by  "  Old  John  of 
Gaunt,  time-honored  Lancaster."  In  better  preserva 
tion  are  the  Leicester  buildings,  reared  by  the  haughty 
nobleman  on  whom  Elizabeth  bestowed  the  castle. 
Almost  three  centuries  have  passed  since  she  so  freely 
taxed  the  hospitality  of  her  lavish  favorite,  and  still 
the  echo  of  their  banqueting,  which  for  seventeen  days 
knew  no  interval,  seem  to  reach  our  ears  through  the 
wizard  pages  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

Though,  in  the  civil  wars  between  Charles  and 
Cromwell,  —  falling  into  the  possession  of  the  latter, — 
it  Avas  dismantled  and  despoiled,  I  was  not  prepared  to 
find  it  so  entire  a  ruin.  Dense  masses  of  luxuriant 
ivy  clasped  and  enfolded  those  broken  arches  and 
mouldering  turrets,  whence  issued  the  pageantry  and 
revels  of  royalty. 

All  silent !  all  deserted !     The  absence  of  life  and 


200  ANCIENT    BARONS. 

motion,  led  to  a  musing  interview  with  those  who 
peopled  it  of  old.  Before  me,  suddenly  seemed  to 
stand  its  founder,  stout  Geoffry  de  Clinton,  the  clear- 
minded,  plain-spoken  knight,  who  to  the  rude  hospital 
ities  of  his  fortalice  so  often  allured  the  courtly  mon 
arch,  Henry  Beauclerc. 

Anon,  the  scene  changes.  A  century  has  passed 
away.  Over  yon  broken  heights,  the  towering  form 
and  frowning  brow  of  Simon  de  Montfort  sweeps,  with 
his  retainers,  summoning  the  malcontent  barons  to  up 
hold  the  rebellion  of  his  ambitious  father,  the  Earl  of 
Leicester,  against  King  Henry  the  Third. 


I  always  longed  for  ruins.     When  a  child, 

Living  where  rifted  rocks  were  plentiful, 

I  fain  would  climb  amid  their  slippery  steeps, 

Shaping  them  into  battlement,  and  shaft, 

And  long-drawn  corridor,  and  dungeon-keep, 

And  haunted  hall.     Not  but  our  own  fresh  groves 

And  lofty  forests  were  all  well  enough, 

But  Fancy  gadded  after  other  things, 

And  hinted  that  a  cloistered  niche,  or  roof 

Of  some  gray  abbey,  with  its  ivy  robe, 

"Would  be  a  vast  improvement.     So,  I  thought 

To  build  a  ruin ;  and  have  lain  awake, 

Thinking  what  stones  and  sticks  I  might  command. 

And  how  to  arrange  them  fitly  in  some  nook 

Of  field  or  garden.     But  the  years  sped  on, 

And  then  my  castles  in  the  air  came  down 


KENIL  WORTH.  201 

So  fast,  and  fell  in  such  fantastic  forms 
At  every  step,  that  I  was  satisfied,  — 
And  never  built  a  ruin. 

When  at  last, 

I  roamed  among  the  wrecks  of  Kenilworth, 
Assured  my  feet  were  on  the  very  spot 
Where  haughty  Dudley,  for  the  haughtier  queen, 
Enacted  such  a  show  of  chivalry 
As  turned  the  tissues  of  Arabia  pale, 
I  lingered  there,  and  through  the  loopholes  gray 
Gazed  on  the  fields  beneath,  and  asked  some  tale 
Of  what  they  might  remember.     The  coarse  grass, 
Fed  in  the  stagnant  marsh,  perked  up  its  head 
As  though  it  fain  would  gossip ;  but  no  breeze 
Gave  it  a  tongue. 

Where  is  thy  practised  strain 
Of  mirth  and  revelry,  O  Kenilworth  ! 
Banquet  and  wassail-bowl,  and  tournament, 
And  incense  offered  to  the  gods  of  earth  ? 
The  desolation,  that  befel  of  yore 
The  cities  of  the  plain,  hath  found  thee  out, 
And  quelled  thy  tide  of  song. 

Deserted  pile ! 

Sought  they,  who  reared  thee,  for  a  better  house 
Not  made  with  hands  ?     Or,  by  thy  grandeur  lured, 
Dreamed  they  to  live  forever,  and  to  call 
These  lands  by  their  own  names  ? 

Where  Caesar's  tower 
Hides  in  a  mass  of  ivy  the  deep  rents 
That  years  have  made,  methinks  we  still  may  see 


202  KENILWORTH. 

The  watchful  warder  lay  his  mace  aside, 
And  through  the  pent-horn  blow  a  mighty  blast, 
To  warn  his  master,  the  good,  stalwart  knight, 
Geoffry  de  Clinton,  that  his  patron-king, 
The  Norman  Beauclerc,  with  a  hunting  train, 
Swept  o'er  the  Warwick  hills,  intent  to  prove 
His  hospitality,  perchance  to  explore 
His  new-reared  fortress. 

Let  a  century  pass,  — 
And  from  yon  bastion,  with  a  fiery  glance, 
That  speaks  the  restless  and  vindictive  soul, 
Simon  de  Montfort  counts  his  men  at  arms, 
Warning  his  archers  that  their  bows  be  strong, 
And  every  arrow  sharply  ring  that  day, 
Against  their  lawful  sovereign. 

Change  hath  swept, 

With  wave  on  wave,  the  feudal  times  away, 
And  from  their  mightiest  fabrics  plucked  the  pride. 
The  patriarchs,  and  the  men  before  the  flood, 
Who  trod  the  virgin  greenness  of  the  earth, 
While  centuries  rolled  on  centuries,  dwelt  in  tents, 
And  tabernacles,  deeming  that  their  date 
Was  all  too  short,  to  entrench  themselves,  and  hold 
Successful  warfare  with  oblivious  death. 
But  we,  in  the  full  plenitude  and  hope 
Of  threescore  years  and  ten,  (how  oft  curtailed  !) 
Add  house  to  house,  and  field  to  field,  and  heap 
Stone  upon  stone  ;  then,  shuddering,  sink  and  die  :  — 
While  in  our  footsteps  climb  another  race, 
Graves  all  around  them,  and  the  booming  knell 
Forever  in  their  ears. 


K  I- NIL  WORTH.  203 

The  humbling  creed, 
That  all  is  vanity,  doth  force  a  way 
Into  the  gayest  heart,  that  trusts  itself 
To  ruminate  amid  these  buried  wrecks 
Of  princely  splendor  and  baronial  pomp. 
Methinks  the  spirit  of  true  wisdom  loves 
To  haunt  such  musing  shades.     The  taller  plants 
Sigh  to  the  lowly  ones,  and  they  again 
Give  lessons  to  the  grass,  and  now  and  then 
Shake  a  sweet  dewdrop  on  it,  to  reward 
A  docile  temper ;  while  each  leaf  imprints 
Its  tender  moral  on  the  passer-by,  — 
"  Ye  all,  like  us,  must  fade." 

Here  comes  a  bee, 

From  yon  forsaken  bower,  as  if  to  watch 
Our  piracies  upon  her  honey-cups, 
Perchance,  with  sting  to  guard  them.    Light  of  wing  I 
Hast  e'er  a  hive  amid  those  tangled  boughs  ? 
"We  '11  not  invade  thy  secrecy,  nor  thin 
Thy  scanty  hoard  of  flowers.     Let  them  bloom  on  ; 
Why  should  we  rob  the  ruin  of  a  gem, 
Which  God  hath  set,  to  help  its  poverty  ? 

It  seems  like  an  illusion  still,  to  say 

I  've  been  at  Kenilworth.     But  yet  't  is  true. 

And  when  once  more  I  reach  my  pleasant  home, 

In  Yankee  land,  should  conversation  flag 

Among  us  ladies,  though  it  seldom  does, 

When  of  our  children,  and  our  housekeeping, 

And  help  we  speak,  —  yet  should  there  be  a  pause, 


204  KENILWORTH. 

I  will  bethink  me  in  that  time  of  need 

To  mention  Kenilworth,  and  such  a  host 

Of  questions  will  rain  down,  from  those  who  read 

Scott's  wizard  pages,  as  will  doubtless  make 

The  precious  tide  of  talk  run  free  again. 

And  when  I  'm  sitting  in  my  grandame  chair, 
If  e'er  I  live  such  honored  place  to  fill, 
I  '11  hush  the  noisy  young  ones,  should  they  tease 
And  trouble  their  mamma,  with  promised  tales 
Of  ancient  Kenilworth. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

THE  first  entrance  into  London  is  an  era  in  the  life 
of  every  human  being.  The  deep  tide  of  historic  asso 
ciation,  meeting  the  strong  surge  of  living  things,  like 
a  conflicting  current,  sways  and  bewilders  the  balance 
of  the  mind.  For  a  moment,  the  Past  and  Present  are 
chaotic  elements. 

But  with  me,  as  motes  may  eclipse  the  sun,  a  little 
fountain  in  the  heart  sprang  up,  and  prevailed.  Let 
ters  from  home !  —  our  first  letters  from  home  !  Here 
they  met  us.  So  uncertain  and  erratic  had  been  our 
programme,  that  our  bankers  deemed  it  safest  not  to 
forward  them. 

Words  of  love  !  What  force  do  they  gather  by  trav 
ersing  thousands  of  miles  of  earth  and  ocean.  They 
remember  us  still !  the  dwellers  in  that  home  which  is 
ever  on  our  prayers.  Those  lines  from  the  young  pens 
of  children,— -why  are  they  suddenly  so  wet°  with 
tears  ?  Let  the  mother,  who  has  scarcely  ever  been 
absent  for  a  week  from  those  she  has  nurtured,  — who 
could  hear,  on  her  own  pillow,  their  sweet  breathings 
in  the  nursery,—  count  the  hours  of  silence  for  seventy- 


206  WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

six  days  and  nights,  and  see  if  she  does  not  bless 
the  gray  goose-quill,  and  the  art  of  the  scnbe,  w.th  a 
fervor  heretofore  unknown. 

Our  first  Sabbath  service  in  the  world's  great  me 
tropolis  was  at  Westminster  Abbey.  There,  «md  the 
Juldering  dust  of  the  mighty  dead,  we  ought  surdy 
to  have  listened,  with  deepened  devotion,  to  the  sub 
lime  prayers,  and  solemn  instructions  of  a  sermon  from 
the  words  of  our  divine  Lord, -« Marvel  not  that  I 
said  unto  you,  ye  must  be  born  again." 

Our  initiatory  view  of  this  wonderful  pile  wascursory, 
bavin*  decided  to  attend  the  afternoon's  worship  at  bt. 
Paul's,  which,  from  our  hotel  in  Hanover  Square,  was 
distant  between  three  and  four  miles  Repeated  v>s,ts, 
and  more  thorough  examinations,  lightened  our  sent 
ments  of  wonder  and  of  awe.  To  select  or  dehneae  par- 
ticular  monuments,  seems  invidious  and  unjus  to  the 
emotions  that  spring  up  in  this  great  palace  of  tombs 

Methou^ht  Bacon  said  to  us  from  h,s  marble  pedes 
tal  "After  all  our  wanderings,  religion  is  the  haven 
and  sabbath  of  man's  contemplations."  Milton,  rn  ms 
Ljesty,  seemed  to  burst  forth  in  that  thnlhng  adjura- 
tion,  — 

»  Avenge,  0  Lord !  thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  bleaching  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cole 

The  smile  upon  Prior's  lip  seemed  indicative  of  flu 
sweetness  that  sometimes  flowed  from  his  lyre  ;  and  1 
hope  to  be  forgiven  that,  standing  by  the  pure  white 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  207 

marble  of  Watts,  my  first  thought  should  breathe  out 
his  simple,  maternal  melody,  — 

"  Hush,  my  dear !  lie  still,  and  slumber, 
Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed." 

Him  of  Avon  bore  to  us,  on  a  graven  scroll,  the  glori 
ous  passage  that  gathered,  as  in  one  great  sound,  the 
witnessing  spirits  of  all  who  reposed  there,  — 

"  The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, — 
Yea,  all  it  doth  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind." 

One  of  the  Admirals  of  England,  from  the  solemn  sym 
bols  of  a  magnificent  monument,  taught  of  the  time 
"  when  the  sea  shall  give  up  her  dead  ; "  and  the  Ger 
man  musician,  Handel,  while  apparently  listening  in 
delighted  abstiaction  to  the  harp  of  an  angel  amid 
clouds,  points  to  the  words  of  the  patriarch,  embalmed 
in  the  strains  of  his  own  Messiah, 

"  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth." 

The  contrast  between  the  meditations  that  would  fain 
linger  amid  this  receptacle  of  the  illustrious  dead  and 
the  ceaseless  turmoil  and  pressure  of  the  living  throng 
without,  is  strikingly  and  strangely  impressive.  The 
restlessness  and  rush  of  the  people,  in  the  most  popu 
lous  parts  of  London,  are  among  the  best  aids  to  a 
stranger  in  forming  an  idea  of  its  magnitude.  At  first 


208  THRONGS    OF   LONDON. 

there  is  a  dreaminess,  an  uncertainty  whether  one  is, 
of  a  very  truth,  in  the  «  world's  great  wilderness  capi 
tal  "     Parts  of  it  are  so  much  like  what  have  been 
seen   at  home,   that  we  try  to  fancy    we    are    still 
there.     Names,  too,  with  which  we  have  been  familiar 
from  the  lispings  of  our  earliest  lessons  in  geography, 
or  whose  imprint  was  in  the  most  precious  picture 
books  of  our  nursery,  assist  this  illusion.     Paternoster 
Bow,  Temple  Bar,  Charing  Cross,  The  Strand,  Fleet 
Street,  Bolt   Court,  from  whose  sombre  windows  it  it 
easy  to  imagine  Dr.  Johnson  still  looking  out,  are  to 
us  as  household  words.     But  when  you  see  the  press 
and  struggle  of  the  living  mass,  at  high  noon,  through 
«ome  of  the  most  frequented  streets ;  or  when,  on  some 
throned  Sabbath  in   St.  Paul's,  listen  to  the  tread  of 
the  congregation,  like  the  rush  of  many  waters,  upon 
the  marble  pavement  of  that  vast  ornate  pile,  you  begin 
to  realize  that  you  are  indeed  in  the  midst  of  two  mil 
lions  of  human  beings.     A  kind  of   suffocating  fear 
steals  for  a  moment  over  you,  lest  you  might  never  get 
clear  of  them,  and  breathe  freely  in  your  own  native 
woods  again;  and  then  comes  a  deep  feeling  that  you 
are  as  nothing  among  them  ;  that  you  might  fall  in  the 
streets  and  die,  unnoticed  or  trodden  down  ;  that  will 
all  your  home-indulgence,  self-esteem,  and  vanity  about 
YOU,  you  are  only  a  speck,  a  cypher,  a  sand  upon  the 
seashore   of  creation  :    a  conviction,  humiliating,  I 

col  n  t  n  T*  V* 

Two  millions  of  human  beings  !     Here  they  have 
their  habitations,  in  every  diversity  of  shelter,  from  the 


THRONGS    OF   LONDON.  209 

palace  to  the  hovel,  in  every  variety  of  array,  from  the 
inmate  of  the  royal  equipage  to  the  poor  street-sweeper. 
Some  glittering  on  the  height  of  wealth  and  power, 
others  sinking  in  the  depths  of  poverty  and  misery. 
Yet  to  every  heart  is  dealt  its  modicum  of  hope,  every 
lip  hath  a  taste  of  the  bitter  bread  of  disappointment. 
Death,  ever  taking  aim  among  them,  replenishes  his 
receptacles  night  and  day,  while  in  thousands  of  cur 
tained  chambers,  how  many%rms  and  bosoms  earnestly 
foster  the  new-born  life,  that  he  may  have  fresh  tro 
phies.  For  earth  and  the  things  of  earth,  for  fancies 
and  forms  of  happiness,  all  are  scheming,  and  striving, 
and  struggling,  from  the  little  rill,  working  its  way 
under  ground  in  darkness  and  silence,  to  the  great 
crested  wave,  that,  with  a  thunder-sound,  breaks  on 
the  shore  of  eternity. 

Unclasp  the  world's  close  armor  from  thy  heart, 
Dismiss  the  gay  companion  from  thy  side, 

And,  if  thou  canst,  elude  the  practised  art 
And  dull  recitative  of  venal  guide  ; 
So  shalt  thou  come  aright,  with  reverent  tread, 
Unto  this  solemn  city  of  the  dead, 
Nor  uninstructed  mid  its  haunts  abide : 
But  o'er  the  dust  of  heroes  moralize, 
And  learn  that  humbling  lore,  which  makes  the  spirit 
wise. 

How  silent  are  ye  all,  ye  sons  of  song, 

Whose  harps  the  music  of  the  earth  did  make ! 
14 


210  WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

How  low  ye  sleep  amid  the  mouldering  throng, 
Whose  tuneful  echoes  keep  the  world  awake, 
While  age  on  age  their  fleeting  transit  take ! 

How  damp  the  vault  where  sweeps  their  banner-fold, 
Whose  clarion-cry  made  distant  regions  quake ! 

How  weak  the  men  of  might !  how  tame  the  bold ! 
Chained  to  the  narrow  niche,  and  locked  in  marble  cold. 

He  of  lost  Paradise,  who  nobly  sang, 

Whose  thought  sublime  above  our  lower  sphere 

Soared  as  a  star ;  and  he  who  deftly  rang 
The  lyre  of  fancy,  o'er  the  smile  and  tear, 
Ruling  supreme ;  and  he,  who  taught  the  strain 
To  roll  Pindaric  o'er  his  native  plain  ; 

He,  too,  who  poured  on  Isis'  streamlet  clear 

Unto  his  Shepherd  Lord  the  hymn  of  praise, 
I  bow  me  at  your  shrines,  ye  great  of  other  days. 

"  1  know  that  my  Redeemer  livetli  !  "     Grave 
Deep  on  our  hearts,  as  on  thy  stony  scroll, 

That  glorious  truth  which  a  lost  world  can  save, 
Oh  German  minstrel !  whose  melodious  soul 
Still  in  the  organ's  living  breath  doth  float,  — 
Devotion  soaring  on  its  seraph-note,  — 

Or,  with  a  wondering  awe,  the  throng  control, 

When  from  some  minster  vast,  like  thunder-chime, 

The  Oratorio  bursts  in  majesty  sublime. 

Here  rest  the  rival  statesmen,  calm  and  meek, 
Even  as  the  child,  whose  little  quarrel  o'er, 


W-r.STMIXSTER    ABBEY.  211 

Subdued  to  peace,  doth  kiss  his  brother's  cheek, 
And  share  his  pillow,  pleased  to  strive  no  more. 
Yes,  side  by  side  they  sleep,  whose  warring  word 
Convulsed  the  nations,  and  old  ocean  stirred  ; 
Slight  seem  the  feuds  that  moved  the  crowd  of  yore, 

To  him  who  now  in  musing  reverie  bends, 
Where  Pitt  and  Fox  dream  on,  those  death-cemented 
friends. 

And  here  lies  Richard  Busby,  not  with  frown, 
As  when  his  little  realm  he  ruled  severe, 

Nor  to  the  sceptred  Stuart  bowed  him  down, 
But  held  his  upright  course,  with  brow  severe ; 
Still  bears  his  hand  the  pen  and  classic  page, 
While  the  sunk  features,  marked  by  furrowing  age, 

And  upraised  eye,  with  supplicating  fear, 

Seem  to  implore  that  pity  in  his  woe, 
Which,  to  the  erring  child,  perchance,  he  failed  to  show. 

Mary  of  Scotland  hath  her  monument 

Fast  by  that  mightier  queen  of  kindred  line, 

By  whom  her  soul  was  to  its  Maker  sent, 
Ere  Nature  warned  her  to  His  bar  divine ; 
It  is  a  fearful  thing,  thus  side  by  side 
To  see  the  murderer  and  the  murdered  bide, 

And  of  the  scaffold  think,  and  strange  decline 

That  wrung  the  Tudor's  weary  breath  away, 
And  of  the  strict  account  at  the  great  reckoning  day. 

Seek  ye  the  chapel  of  yon  monarch  proud, 
Who  rests  so  gorgeous  mid  the  princely  train  ? 


212  WESTMINSTER    ABBEY. 

And  sleeps  he  sweeter  than  the  humbler  crowd, 
Unmarked  by  costly  arch  or  sculptured  fane  ? 
I  Ve  seen  the  turf-mound  of  the  village  hind, 
Where  all  unsheltered  from  the  wintry  wind, 
Sprang  one  lone  flower  of  deep  and  deathless  stain  ; 
That  simple  faith  which  bides  the  shock  of  doom, 
When  bursts  the  visioned  pomp  that  decked  the  sa 
trap's  tomb. 

Dim  Abbey !  'neath  thine  arch  the  shadowy  past 
O'ersweeps  our  spirits,  like  the  banyan  tree, 

Till  living  men,  as  reeds  before  the  blast, 

Are  bowed  and  shaken.     Who  may  speak  to  thee, 
Thou  hoary  guardian  of  the  illustrious  dead, 
With  unchilled  bosom  or  a  chainless  tread  ? 

Thou  breath'st  no  sound,  no  word  of  utterance  free, 

Save  now  and  then  a  trembling  chant  from  those 

Whose  Sabbath-worship  wakes  amid  thy  deep  repose. 

For  thou  the  pulseless  and  the  mute  hast  set, 
As  teachers  of  a  world  they  loved  too  well, 

And  made  thy  lettered  aisles  an  alphabet, 

Where  wealth  and  power  their  littleness  may  spell, 
And  go  their  way  the  wiser,  if  they  will ; 
Yea,  even  thy  chisel's  art,  thy  carver's  skill, 

Thy  tracery,  like  the  spider's  film-wrought  cell, 

But  deeper  grave  the  lessons  of  the  dead, 
Their  bones  beneath  our  feet,  thy  dome  above  our  head. 

A  throng  is  at  thy  gates.     With  lofty  head 
The  unslumbering  city  claims  to  have  her  will, 


WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  213 

She  strikes  her  gong,  and  with  a  ceaseless  tread 
Circleth  thy  time-scathed  walls.  But  stern  and  still. 
Thou  bear'st  the  chafing  of  her  mighty  tide, 
In  silence  brooding  o'er  thy  secret  pride, 

The  moveless  soldiers  of  thy  citadel ; 

Yet  wide  to  Heaven  thy  trusting  arms  dost  spread, 
Thine  only  watchword,  God!  God  and  the  sacred  dead! 


THE  TOWER. 


THE  Tower,  more  than  any  other  locality,  seems  the 
historic  embodiment  of  England,  in  its  majesty  and  its 
mystery,  —  its  glories,  its  treasons,  and  its  mistakes. 
From  the  time  of  the  fierce  Norman  conqueror,  the 
sighing  of  the  prisoner,  and  the  voice  of  the  oppressor, 
like  the  wailing  dirge  and  the  shriek  of  the  trumpet, 
have  discordantly  mingled  within  its  walls. 

Covering  an  area  of  twelve  acres,  with  massive  and 
irregular  fortifications, —  its  principal  modern  uses  are 
as  an  arsenal,  a  fastness  for  the  regalia,  and  a  reposi 
tory  for  the  memorial  of  things  that  were.  Its  objects 
of  interest  in  these  different  departments  are  almost 
without  number.  Still  to  me,  from  a  deficiency  of  mil 
itary  impulse,  some  that  were  the  most  zealously  ex 
hibited,  proved  the  least  congenial ;  and  I  gazed  with 
more  of  surprise  than  exultation,  on  two  hundred  thou 
sand  stand  of  arms,  arranged  in  an  imposing  manner,  and 
quantities  of  cannon,  —  the  captured  treasures  of  many 
lands.  The  corroded  guns  of  the  Royal  George,  drawn 
by  the  diving-bell  from  their  long  sojourn  in  the  deep, 
awakened  recollections  of  the  plaintive  poem  of  Cowper, 


Bl  VMSII    ARMADA.  215 

—  "Toll  for  the  brave,"  —  occasionally  sung  among 
the  simple  ditties  of  childhood.  The  destructive  weap 
ons  and  instruments  of  torture,  taken  from  the  Spanish 
armada,  are  placed  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  waxen 
effigy  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  on  horseback,  going  to  return 
thanks  at  St.  Paul's  for  the  defeat  of  that  terrible  arm 
ament,  by  the  artillery  of  Heaven,  which  she  caused 
to  be  kept  in  memory  by  a  medal  with  the  inscription, 
"  Thou  didst  blow  with  thy  wind,  the  sea  covered 
them."  I  placed  my  thumb  in  the  screws  which  the 
Dons  provided  for  their  English  neighbors,  touched  the 
edge  of  the  axe  that  beheaded  Anne  Boleyn,  felt  the 
rugged  block  which  had  been  so  oft  saturated  with 
noble  blood,  and  entered,  with  indignation,  the  dark, 
miserable  dungeon  where  the  noble  Sir  Walter  Ra 
leigh  was  nightly  locked,  while  his  chainless  intellect 
verified  the  assertion  of  the  poet,  — 

"  The  oppressor  holds 

The  body  bound,  but  knows  not  what  a  range 
The  spirit  takes." 

The  warders  of  the  Tower,  with  their  flat  hats  or 
caps,  encircled  with  wreaths,  and  laced  frock-coats, 
lead  the  mind  back  to  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth, 
who  established  that  gorgeous  costume.  I  formed  quite 
a  friendship  for  the  line  of  equestrian  kings,  knights, 
and  cavaliers,  from  Henry  the  Sixth  to  James  the 
Second,  who  were  ranged  in  full  armor ;  and  regretted 


216  PRISON    TURRET. 

to  hear  that  any  inroad  should  have  been  made  among 
them  by  a  subsequent  conflagration  at  the  Tower, 
which  destroyed  so  many  relics  that  time  and  tradition 
had  made  precious  to  mankind. 

In  a  darkened  room,  through  a  rampart  of  iron  bars, 
we  were  permitted  to  look  at  England's  regalia,  scep 
tre,  ampulla,  and  christening  font,  —  the  crown  of  poor 
Anne  Boleyn,  —  that  of  James  the  First,  and  the  new 
one  made  for  Victoria,  sparkling  with  precious  stones, 
and  valued  at  two  millions  sterling. 

A  different  class  of  sentiments  were  appealed  to,  as 
we  groped  our  way  up  the  narrow,  winding  flight  of 
steps  to  the  turret  on  whose  walls  the  martyrs  had 
graven  their  names  or  etchings,  with  such  rude  instru 
ments  as  their  captivity  might  command.  Climbing 
still  higher,  we  looked  from  the  grated  window  whence 
the  lovely  Lady  Jane  Grey  gazed  upon  the  headless 
form  of  her  husband. 


Up,  up  this  dizzy  stair,  for  here  she  went 
To  her  dark  prison-room,  the  sweetly  fair, 

Around  whose  cradle,  wealth  and  power  had  bent, 
And  classic  learning  strewed  its  garlands  rare, 

The  guiltless  martyr  for  a  father's  fault, 

Whose  strong  ambition  overleaped  the  truth, 

And  placed  her,  shrinking,  on  another's  throne, 
To  whelm  in  hapless  woe  her  blooming  youth. 


LADY   JANE    GREY.  217 

Here,  on  this  grated  window,  let  me  lean, 

From  whence  she  gazed  upon  that  fearful  sight, 

The  life-blood  of  her  bosom's  dearest  lord ; 

Her  pale  lip  shuddering,  yet  her  pure  eye  bright 

With  faith  the  same  sharp  path  to  tread,  and  meet 
The  idol  of  her  love  at  their  Redeemer's  feet. 


OXFORD. 


IN  our  ride  of  fifty-five  miles,  between  London  and 
Oxford,  we  passed  over  a  portion  of  Hounslow  Heath, 
so  full  of  legendary  lore,  —  saw  the  royal  banners  wav 
ing  from  the  battlements  of  Windsor  Castle,  and  ad 
mired  a  profusion  of  fine  ancient  oaks  in  Henly  and 
its  vicinity.  We  approached  the  time-honored  spot,  so 
hallowed  by  science,  literature  and  loyalty,  under  the 
shades  of  evening ;  but  were  admonished  of  our  prox 
imity  to  the  classic  atmosphere  of  its  Universities  by 
the  tones  of  the  "  Mighty  Tom,"  the  great  bell  of  Christ 
Church,  which  weighs  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
pounds,  and  at  ten  minutes  after  nine  tolls  one  hundred 
and  one  times,  the  number  of  the  established  students, 
or  fellows  of  that  college.  In  our  subsequent  visit  to 
that  institution,  where  the  sons  of  the  nobility  are  edu 
cated,  we  saw  their  tables  spread  in  the  spacious  hall, 
one  hundred  and  fifteen  feet  in  length  and  fifty  in 
height,  built  by  Cardinal  Wolsey,  in  the  days  of  his 
magnificence.  His  portrait,  in  crimson  robes,  was 
hanging  near  that  of  his  master,  Henry  the  Eighth, 
whose  capricious  temper  wrought  his  destruction.  A 


CARDINAL    WOLSET.  219 

rude,  triangular  garden-chair,  which  he  used  to  occupy 
when  superintending  the  workmen  upon  the  grounds, 
or  the  edifice,  is  still  preserved  in  the  library ;  and, 
seating  myself  within  its  no  very  luxurious  purlieus, 
the  pathos  of  his  dying  supplication  to  the  pitying  Ab 
bot,  came  freshly  over  me : 

"  Give  me  a  little  earth  for  charity." 

In  the  morning  service  at  St.  Mary's  Church, 
there  were  present  the  heads  of  twenty-one  colleges, 
several  distinguished  theologians,  and  multitudes  of 
students,  with  whose  reverent  deportment,  healthful 
aspect,  and  fine  appearance  in  their  scholastic  uniform, 
we  were  pleasantly  impressed.  In  the  afternoon,  at 
St.  Magdalen's  fine  old  church,  with  its  noble  stained 
windows  and  ivy-clustered  columns,  we  heard  magnifi 
cent  music,  from  a  grand  organ,  and  a  choir  of  one 
hundred  voices,  among  which  were  sixteen  perfectly 
trained  chanting  boys. 

Delightful  walks  had  we  often,  amid  the  meadows  of 
velvet  verdure,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  Isis  and  Cher- 
well.  We  seated  ourselves  on  the  identical  spot,  by 
the  last  named  stream,  sprinkled  by  snowy  flocks  and 
antlered  deer,  where  Addison  produced  that  almost 
inspired  version  of  the  23d  Psalm  : 

"  The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  Shepherd's  care." 

Our  researches  in  the  Bodleian  and  Radcliflfe  libra- 


220      BODLEIAN   AND    RADCLIFFE    LIBRARIES. 

ries,  the  former  of  which  contains  400,000  volumes, 
with  countless  manuscripts,  delighted  us  exceedingly  ; 
as  did  also  the  architecture  of  those  time-honored  struc 
tures,  in  which,  and  in  the  illustrious  men  nurtured 
within  their  walls,  Oxford  so  justly  glories.  The  even 
ing  before  our  departure,  after  listening  to  the  sublime 
chants  in  the  beautiful  chapel  of  New  College,  we  went 
to  stand  on  the  spot,  near  Baliol,  where,  on  the  16th  of 
October,  1555,  Latimer,  bishop  of  Worcester,  and 
Ridley,  bishop  of  London,  expired  at  the  stake.  It 
seemed,  if  not  a  natural  combination,  surely  a  touching 
climax,  for  thought  to  rise  from  the  deep  historical  as 
sociations  that  cluster  around  the  fanes  of  learning  and 
piety,  to  the  unshrinking  faith  of  that  "  blessed  com 
pany  of  martyrs,"  who,  through  much  tribulation,  en 
tered  into  eternal  rest. 

The  spot,  rendered  so  sacred  by  the  sufferings  of 
these  two  prelates,  is  now  designated  by  a  noble  monu 
ment,  more  than  seventy  feet  in  height  —  prepara 
tions  for  the  erection  of  which  were  in  progress  at  the 
time  of  our  visit  to  Oxford. 


Turret,  and  spire,  and  dome  ! 

How  proud  they  rise, 
Clasped  in  the  arms  of  elmy  avenues, 
Each  with  its  robe  of  wisdom  or  of  power 
Around  it,  like  a  mantle.     Glorious  thoughts, 
Born  of  the  hoary  past,  and  mighty  shades 
Nurtured  in  silence,  and  made  eloquent 


ADDISON'S  SEAT.  221 

Here,  in  these  cloistered  cells,  for  after  times, 
Meet  him  who  museth  here. 

I  sat  me  down 

Upon  a  quiet  seat,  o'erhung  with  boughs 
Umbrageous,  at  my  feet  a  dimpling  stream, 
The  silver  Cherwell ;  verdant  meadows  spread 
Broadly  around,  where  roamed  the  antlered  deer 
At  pleasure,  while  serene  a  snowy  flock 
Reposed  or  ruminated. 

Did  some  cloud 

Burst  with  an  inborn  melody  ?     Or  harp, 
Instinct  with  numbers  of  the  minstrel  king, 
Pour  forth  an  echo  strain  ?     It  was  thy  hymn, 
O  Addison  !  and  this  the  chosen  spot 
Where  thou  didst  sing  of  Him,  who  should  prepare 
Thy  pasture,  and  by  living  waters  lead, 
And  the  unslumbering  Shepherd  of  thy  soul 
Be  evermore. 

And  then  there  seemed  to  pass 
A  shadowy  host,  the  great  of  other  days, 
Arm  linked  in  arm,  in  high  communion  sweet, 
Blessing  the  haunts  where  Learning  forged  for  them 
Imperishable  armor! 

But  we  turned 

From  their  entrancing  company,  to  walk 
Among  the  living,  and  to  scan  the  tomes 
In  halls  and  alcoves  hoarded,  row  on  row, 
Which,  in  their  plenitude,  might  half  confuse 
The  arithmetician's  skill ;  and  see  the  light 
With  rainbow  pencil  through  the  storied  panes 


222  EVENING    CHANT. 

Of  old  St.  Magdalen,  so  solemnly 
Touch  the  dull  pavement  with  the  lore  of  heaven, 
A  tender/Jinted  lesson,  which  the  heart 
Sometimes  in  colder  flintiness  receives, 
Unkindled,  unreflected.     Next,  to  hear 
St.  Mary's  wondrous  chant,  at  evening  hour, 
As  though  the  earth  to  angels  bade  good  night, 
And  they  replied,  hosanna  !  then,  to  stand 
Beneath  the  pure  eye  of  the  watching  stars, 
Where  on  the  winds  their  eddying  ashes  rose, 
Who  earthly  mitre  for  a  martyr's  crown 
In  flames  exchanged. 

Methought  the  scene  returned 
Unfadingly  before  us.     Then,  as  now, 
Fled  was  the  Summer-flush,  though  Autumn's  breath 
Delayed  to  sear  the  leaf,  that  o'er  the  tide 
Of  gentle  Isis  hung.     Up  through  the  mass 
Of  woven  foliage  went  the  holy  towers, 
And  classic  domes,  where  throned  Science  points 
To  Alfred's  honored  name. 

See  the  rude  throng,  — 

Dark  glaring  brows,  and  blood-shot,  fiery  eyes, 
And  preparations  dire  for  fearful  pangs 
Of  ignominious  death.     Yet  all  around, 
The  sparkling  waters,  and  benignant  skies, 
And  trees,  with  cool,  embracing  arms,  allure 
To  thoughts  of  mercy.     Still,  unpitying  man 
Heeds  not,  relents  not,  though  sweet  Nature  kneels, 
And  sheds  her  holy  tear-drops  on  his  heart, 
To  melt  the  savage  purpose. 


RIDLEY   AND    LATIM1.K.  223 

Through  dense  crowds 
Exulting  led,  there  comes  a  noble^form, 
Majestic  of  demeanor,  and  arrayed 
In.  sacerdotal  robes.     Those  lips,  which  oft 
'Neath  some  cathedral's  awe-imposing  arch 
Warned  with  heaven's  eloquence  a  tearful  throng, 
Now,  in  this  deep  adversity,  essay 
The  same  blest  theme.    With  brutal  haste  they  check 
The  unfinished  sentence,  they  who  used  to  crouch 
To  his  high  fortunes,  or  with  shouts  partake 
His  flowing  bounty.     Smitten  on  the  mouth, 
In  silent  dignity  of  soul,  he  stands 
Unanswering,  though  reviled. 

Lo !  at  his  side, 

Worn  out  with  long  imprisonment,  they  place 
The  venerable  Latimer.     With  years 
His  footsteps  falter,  but  his  soul  is  firm, 
And  his  fixed  eye,  like  the  first  martyr's,  seems 
To  read  unfolding  heaven.     The  gazing  throng, 
The  stake,  the  faggot,  and  the  cutting  sneer, 
Are  nought  to  him.     Wrapped  in  his  prison-garb, 
The  scorn  of  low  malignity  is  he, 
Whom  pomp  and  wealth  had  courted,  at  whose  voice 
The  pious  Edward  wept  that  childlike  tear, 
Which  works  the  soul's  salvation,  and  his  sire, 
Boisterous  and  swoln  with  passion,  stood  reproved 
Like  a  chained  lion. 

Now  the  narrow  space 
'Twixt  life  and  death  the  dial's  point  hath  run, 


224  RIDLEY   AND    LATIMER. 

And  quick,  with  sacrilegious  hand,  they  bind 
The  guiltless  victims. 

But  the  one  who  seemed 
The  lowest  bent  with  age,  now  strongest  rose 
To  give  away  his  spirit  joyously  ; 
And,  throwing  off  his  prison  garments,  stood 
In  fair,  white  robes,  as  on  his  spousal  day. 
Then  Ridley,  in  whose  veins  the  pulse  beat  strong 
With  younger  life,  girded  himself  to  bear 
The  burning  of  his  flesh,  while  Faith  portrayed, 
In  glorious  vision  to  his  dazzled  sight, 
The  noble  army  of  those  martyred  ones, 
Who  round  God's  altar  wait. 

With  wreathing  spires 

Up  went  the  crackling  flame,  and  that  old  man, 
Triumphant  o'er  his  anguish,  boldly  cried, 
"  Courage,  my  brother  !     We  this  day  do  light 
A  fire  in  Christendom,  that  ne'er  shall  die." 
Then  on  his  shrivelled  lip  an  angel's  smile 
Settled,  and  life  went  forth  as  pleasantly 
As  from  a  couch  of  down. 

But  Ridley  bore 

A  longer  sorrow.     Oft  with  sigh  and  prayer 
He  gave  his  soul  to  Jesus,  ere  the  flame 
Dissolved  that  gordian  knot  which  bound  it  fast 
To  tortured  clay.     At  length  his  blackened  corse 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  Latimer,  who  raised 
Still  a  calm  brow  to  heaven.     Almost  it  seemed 
That  even  in  death  the  younger  Christian  sought, 


RIDLEY   AND    LATIMER.  225 

By  posture  of  humility,  to  pay 
Deep  homage  to  his  venerated  guide 
And  father  in  the  gospel. 

'T  was  a  sight 

To  curb  demoniac  rage.     Low  stifled  sounds 
Of  pity  rose,  and  many  a  murmurer  mourned 
For  good  King  Edward,  to  the  grave  gone  down 
In  early  sanctity.     And  some  there  were 
To  ban  the  persecuting  Queen,  who  fed 
The  fires  of  Smithfield  with  the  blood  of  saints, 
And  dared  to  kindle  in  these  hallowed  vales 
Her  bigot  wrath. 

There  was  a  chosen  few, 

Who,  sad  and  silent,  sought  their  homes,  to  weep 
For  their  loved  prelates,  yet  no  railing  word, 
Or  vengeful  purpose  breathed,  but  waiting  stood 
For  their  own  test  of  conscience  and  of  faith 
Inflexible. 

This  was  the  flock  of  Christ. 


DOVER. 


THROUGH  the  greater  part  of  our  journey  from 
London  to  Dover,  we  were  instructed  how  copiously 
the  English  skies  know  how  to  pour  down  rain.  Still, 
during  intervals  of  the  storm,  and  sometimes  in  spite 
of  it,  we  explored  various  scenes  and  edifices. 

Gravesend,  some  twenty  miles  from  the  metropolis, 
could  not  be  passed  without  a  tender  reference  in  our 
American  hearts,  to  the  daughter  of  Powhatan,  the 
friend  of  Virginia's  ancestors,  —  the  cherished  guest 
at  Albion's  court,  —  who  here  found  a  tomb,  in  1617, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  when  about  to  reembark  with 
her  husband  and  son,  for  her  native  clime. 

Those  council-fires  are  quench'd,  that  erst  so  red, 

Mid  western  groves  their  midnight  volume  twined ; 
The  red-brow'd  king  and  stately  chief  are  dead,  — 

Nor  remnant,  nor  memorial  left  behind. 
But  thou,  meek  forest-princess,  true  of  heart. 
When  o'er  our  fathers  waved  destruction's  dart, 

Shalt  in  their  children's  loving  hearts  be  shrined. 
Pure,  lonely  star,  o'er  dark  oblivion's  wave, 
It  is  not  meet  thy  name  should  moulder  in  the  grave. 


ROCHESTER  AND  CANTERBURY  CATHEDRALS.      227 

It  required  no  great  effort  of  the  imagination,  in 
looking  across  the  river,  to  depict  the  masculine  form 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  on  horseback,  at  Tilbury  Fort, 
and  hear  her  stout  Tudor  voice  enunciating  to  the 
shouting  people,  that  though  she  was  but  a  "  woman 
she  had  the  heart  of  a  king,  and  a  king  of  England 
too." 

Rochester  Cathedral,  the  smallest  ofxthat  class  of 
edifices  in  the  kingdom,  bears  decided  marks  of  its 
early  Saxon  origin.  It  suffered  considerably  during 
the  reign  of  William  the  First,  and  at  the  Reformation. 
The  tombs  and  statues  of  Henry  the  Second  and  his 
queen,  Matilda,  are  there,  but  we  saw  comparatively 
few  monuments  to  the  illustrious  dead. 

Like  a  mountain  did  old  Canterbury  Cathedral 
tower  up  before  us,  through  the  dimness  of  twilight. 
More  than  five  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  its  principal 
tower  rising  to  nearly  half  that  altitude,  it  is  a  con 
spicuous  object  from  every  point  of  approach.  Thomas 
a  Beckett's  ashes  repose  here,  and  in  the  western  tran 
sept  is  shown  the  spot  where  he  met  his  death  at  the 
foot  of  the  altar.  Here  are  also  monuments  to  Ed 
ward,  the  Black  Prince,  Henry  the  Fourth  and  his 
queen,  and  a  multitude  of  other  distinguished  persona 
ges,  both  of  ancient  and  modern  times. 

The  County  of  Kent  is  replete  with  interesting 
reminiscences.  Its  old  name  of  Cuntium,  or  Corner, 
bestowed  upon  it  by  Cnesar,  is  explained  by  Camden  from 
the  circumstance  of  its  stretching  out  in  an  angular 
form,  and  comprehending  the  south-eastern  part  of  the 


228  THE    PHAROS. 

island.  Among  its  natural  productions  the  culture  of 
the  hop  has  long  been  prominent.  Quaint  Michael 
Drayton  exclaims: 

"  O  famous  Kent ! 

What  county  can  this  isle  compare  with  thee  ? 
Which  hath  within  thyself  all  thou  couldst  wish, 
Habits  and  venison,  fruits,  hops,  fowl,  and  fish,"  &c. 

And  a  more  modern  poet  describes  with  greater  par 
ticularity  this  predominating  vegetable. 

"  On  Cantium's  hills, 

The  flowery  hop,  with  tendrils  climbing  round 
The  tall,  aspiring  pole,  bears  its  light  head 
Aloft,  in  pendent  clusters." 

The  remains  of  the  Pharos,  on  Castle  Hill,  furnish 
decided  proof  of  Roman  workmanship,  though  no  in- 
contestible  evidence  can  be  adduced  that  it  was  erected 
by  Julius  Crcsar,  as  the  traditions  of  that  region  are 
fond  of  asserting.  That  Dover  was  fortified  by  the 
Romans,  is  admitted  by  the  most  discriminating  histo 
rians  ;  and  its  commanding  situation  caused  it  to  be 
prized  and  maintained  as  a  military  station  by  the 
ancient  Britons.  In  its  towering  cliffs,  composed  of 
chalk  and  flint  stones,  we  were  surprised  to  see 
such  a  variety  of  subterranean  ways,  magazines,  and 
barracks  for  soldiers.  The  latter  are  capable  of  con 
taining  more  than  two  thousand  men,  and  are  con 
structed  in  the  side  of  perpendicular  precipices,  to 


MIAKSPEARE    CLIFF.  229 

which  you  ascend,  by  an  internal  winding  staircase, 
some  two  hundred  steps.  Light  and  air  are  conveyed 
to  them  by  well-like  apertures  in  the  chalk,  or  by 
openings  on  the  face  of  the  cliffs  ;  and  an  intelligent 
traveller  has  said,  that  "  the  chimneys,  coming  up  forty 
feet  through  the  mountain,  shoot  out  their  smoke  as  if 
they  were  the  flues  of  some  Cyclopean  artificers,  whose 
forges  were  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth." 

Almost  the  whole  of  the  three  days  spent  in  Dover 
were  marked  by  wild  winds  and  a  tempest  of  rain. 
Our  midnight  music  was  the  hoarse  reverberations  of 
the  sea,  —  smiting  and  broken  against  the  rocks  that 
guard  the  coast. 

On  an  evening  promenade  to  the  Shakspeare  Cliff, 
somewhat  overrating  our  powers  of  adhesion,  we  came 
near  being  swept,  by  a  tremendous  blast,  into  the  boil 
ing  surges  beneath.  This  rock,  whose  apex  must  be 
near  six  hundred  feet,  seems,  even  in  its  more  accessi 
ble  heights,  to  utter  the  words  of  him  whose  name  it 
bears,  — 

"  How  fearful, 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low ! 

Half  way  down, 

Hangs  one  who  gathers  samphire.    Dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 
Yon  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  as  mice." 

Dover  Castle  and  its  reminiscences  of  the  vigilance 
with  which  the  English  troops  here  kept  watch  and 


230  CARICATURE. 

ward  against  the  threatened  invasion  of  Napoleon  the 
First,  led  one  of  our  party  to  describe  a  caricature,  exe 
cuted  at  that  period  in  London,  which  mightily  delight 
ed  the  people.  Bonaparte  is  represented  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  coast  of  Calais,  eagerly  pointing  a  spy 
glass  towards  the  heights  of  Dover,  where  John  Bull, 
in  full  military  uniform,  and  with  his  usual  portly 
figure,  is  perambulating  at  leisure. 

"  Says  Boney  to  Johnny,  I  'm  coming  to  Dover, 
Says  Johnny  to  Boney,  't  is  doubted  by  some ; 
But,  says  Boney,  what  if  I  really  come  over  ? 
Then,  doubtless,  says  Johnny,  you  '11  be  overcome." 

It  was  not  without  some  misgivings,  heightened, 
probably,  by  those  November  fogs  and  rains,  which  in 
the  English  clime  make  demands  on  the  most  elastic 
spirit,  that  we  prepared  to  cross  the  angry  Channel, 
and  enter  another  foreign  land.  A  discourse  to  which 
we  listened  in  Trinity  Church,  the  Sunday  before 
leaving  Dover,  seemed  to  impart  strength  to  our  faith, 
both  by  its  spirit  and  the  passage  on  which  it  was 
founded,  "  Lord,  to  whom  shall  we  go  but  unto  Thee  ? 
Thou  hast  the  words  of  eternal  life." 


Out  on  the  Shakspeare  cliff,  and  look  below  ! 
Seest  thou  the  samphire-gatherer  ?     He  no  more 
Pursues  his  fearful  trade,  as  when  the  eye 
Of  Avon's  bard  descried  him.     But  the  height 
Is  still  as  dizzy,  and  the  ruffian  winds 


DOVER.  231 

Come  from  their  conflict  with  the  raging  seas 
So  vengefully,  that  it  is  hard  to  hold 
A  footing  on  the  rock. 

The  moon  is  forth 

In  all  her  queenly  plenitude,  and  scans 
The  foaming  channel  with  a  look  of  peace 
But  ill  returned.     For  such  a  clamor  reigns 
Between  the  ploughing  waves  and  unyoked  blasts, 
That  the  hoarse  trumpet  of  the  mariner 
Seems  like  the  grass-bird's  chirp. 

And  yet  't  is  grand 

To  gaze  upon  the  mountain  surge,  and  hear 
How  loftily  it  hurls  the  challenge  back 
To  the  chafed  cloud,  and  feel  yourself  a  speck, 
An  atom,  in  His  sight,  who  rules  its  wrath,  — 
To  whom  the  crush  of  all  the  elements 
Were  but  a  bursting  bubble. 

Cliffs  of  chalk, 

Old  Albion's  signal  to  the  mariner, 
Encompass  Dover,  with  their  ramparts  white, 
As  in  her  vale,  half-deafened  by  the  surge, 
She  croucheth  down.     Within  their  yielding  breast, 
Deep  excavations,  and  dark  wreaths  of  smoke 
Mysterious,  curling  upward  to  the  cloud, 
Reveal  the  soldier's  home. 

With  Roman  pride 

The  ancient  Pharos,  in  its  dotage,  points 
To  Cajsar,  and  the  castellated  walls 
Of  yon  irregular  fabric  speak  of  war :  — 
While  France,  who    through    the  curtaining   haze 
peers  out 


232  VILLAGE    FUNERAL. 

Faint  on  the  far  horizon,  boasts  how  oft 
The  bomb-fires  blazed,  and  the  tired  sentinel 
Kept  watch  and  ward  against  her  warrior  step, 
Or  threatened  wrath. 

Yet  sweeter  't  is  to  note 
The  simple  habitudes  of  rural  life, 
Safe  from  such  hurly  'twixt  the  sea  and  shore, 
As  shreds  the  rock  in  fragments. 

Twining  round 

Trellis  or  prop,  or  o'er  the  cottage  wall 
Weaving  its  wiry  tendrils,  interspersed 
With  the  rough  serrate  leaf,  profuse  and  dark,  • 
The  aromatic  hop,  the  grape  of  Kent, 
Lifts  its  full  clusters,  of  a  paler  green, 
Loved  for  the  simple  vintage. 

Many  a  tale 

Of  interest  and  sympathy  is  rife 
Among  the  humble  harvesters  of  Kent ; 
And  one  I  heard,  which  I  remember  still. 
In  a  lone  hamlet,  the  narrator  said, 
I  saw  a  funeral.     Round  the  open  grave 
Gathered  a  band  of  thoughtful  villagers, 
While  pressing  nearest  to  its  shelving  brink, 
A  slender  boy  of  some  few  summers  stood, 
Sole  mourner,  with  a  wild  and  wishful  eye 
Fixed  on  the  coffin.     When  they  let  it  down 
Into  the  darksome  pit,  and  the  coarse  earth 
From  the  grave-digger's  shovel  falling,  gave 
A  hollow  sound,  there  rose  such  bitter  wail, 
Prolonged  and  deep,  as  I  had  never  heard 
Come  from  a  child. 


ORPHAN    BOY.  233 

Then  he,  who  gave,  with  prayers, 
The  body  to  the  dust,  when  the  last  rite 
Was  over,  turned,  with  sympathizing  look, 
And  said  :  — 

"  Poor  boy,  your  mother  will  not  sleep 
In  this  cold  bed  forever.     No  !  —  as  sure 
A>  the  sweet  flowers,  which  now  the  frost  hath  chilled, 
Shall  hear  the  call  of  Spring,  and  the  dry  grass 
Put  on  fresh  greenness,  she  shall  rise  again, 
And  live  a  life  of  joy." 

Bleak  Autumn  winds 
Swept  through  the  rustling  leaves,  and  seemed  to 

pierce 

The  shivering  orphan,  as  he  bowed  him  down 
All  desolate,  to  look  into  the  pit, 
Till  from  the  group  a  kindly  matron  came, 
And  led  him  thence. 

When  Spring,  returning,  threw 
1 1  t-r  trembling  colors  o'er  the  wakened  earth, 
I  wandered  there  again.     A  timid  step 
F»  11  on  my  ear,  and  that  poor  orphan  child 
('ami-  from  his  mother's  grave.      Paler  he'd  grown 
Since  last  I  saw  him,  and  his  little  feet 
With  frequent  tread,  had  worn  the  herbage  down 
To  a  deep,  narrow  path.     lie  started  thence, 
And  would  have  fled  away.     But  when  I  said 
That  I  had  stood  beside  him  while  they  put 
His  mother  in  the  grave,  he  nearer  drew, 
Inquiring  eagerly,  — 

"  Then  did  you  hear 
The  minister,  who  always  speaks  the  truth, 


234  ORPHAN   BOY. 

Say  that  she  'd  rise  again  ?  —  that  just  as  sure 
As  Spring  restored  to  life  the  grass  and  flowers, 
She  would  come  back  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  But  not  here,  my  son  ; 
Not  to  live  here." 

"  Yes,  here,  this  is  the  spot 
Where  she  was  laid.     So  here  she  '11  rise  again, 
Just  where  they  buried  her.     I  marked  it  well, 
And  night  and  morning,  since  the  grass  grew  green, 
I've  come  to  watch.     Sometimes  I  press  my  lips 
Close  to  the  place  where  they  laid  down  her  head, 
And  call,  and  tell  her  that  the  flowers  have  come, 
And  now  't  is  time  to  wake.     See  too  the  seeds 
I  planted  here !  seeds  of  the  flowers  she  loved, 
Break  the  brown  mould.     But  yet  she  d6es  not  come, 
Nor  answer  to  my  voice." 

"  She  cannot  come 
To  you,  on  earth,  but  you  shall  go  to  her.'* 

"  I  go  to  her!  and  his  thin  hands  were  clasped 
So  close,  that  every  bone  and  sinew  seemed 
Fast  knit  together.     Shall  I  go  to  her  ? 
Let  me  go  now." 

Then,  with  a  yearning  heart, 
I  told  him  of  the  Book  that  promiseth 
A  resurrection,  and  eternal  life 
To  them  who  sleep  in  Jesus,  —  that  the  word     * 
Of  God's  unerring  truth  could  ne'er  deceive 
The  trusting  soul,  that  kept  His  holy  law 
Obediently,  and  His  appointed  time 
With  patience  waited. 


ORPHAN    BOY.  235 

"Oh  I  '11  wait  His  time, 
And  try  to  do  His  will,  if  I  may  hope, 
After  this  body  dies,  to  rise  again, 
And  live  once  more  with  mother." 

So  he  turned 

From  that  low  grave,  with  such  a  piteous  look 
Of  soul  subdued,  and  utter  loneliness, 
As  haunted  memory,  like  a  troubled  dream. 

Time  sped  away,  and  when  again  I  passed 
That  quiet  village,  I  inquired  for  him, 
And  one  who  knew  him  told  me  how  he  prized 
The  blessed  Book,  which  teacheth  that  the  dead 
Shall  rise  again,  and  o'er  its  pages  hung 
Each  leisure  moment,  with  a  wondering  love, 
Until  he  learned  of  Jesus,  and  laid  down 
All  sorrow  at  his  feet. 

But  then  there  came 
A  fearful  sickness,  and  in  many  a  cot 
Were  children  dead,  and  he  grew  ill,  and  bore 
His  pain  without  complaint,  and  meekly  died, 
And  went  to  join  the  mother  that  he  loved. 


CALAIS. 


CREST-fallen  we  came, 
And  coldly  dripping  from  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Into  the  gates  of  Calais.     As  our  eye 
Turned  backward,  musing  on  the  things  that  were, 
We  thought  of  thee,  Philippa,  and  thy  tear 
Of  intercession,  and  the  joy  it  brought 
To  mournful  homes. 

Edward  was  fired  with  wrath. 

"  Bring  forth,"  he  said, 
"  The  hostages,  and  let  their  death  instruct 
This  contumacious  city." 

Forth  they  came, 

The  rope  about  their  necks,  —  those  patriot  men, 
Who  nobly  chose  an  ignominious  doom 
To  save  their  country's  blood.     Famine  and  toil 
And  the  long  siege  had  worn  them  to  the  bone ; 
Yet  from  their  eye  spoke  that  heroic  soul 
Which  scorns  the  body's  ill.     Father  and  son 
Stood  side  by  side,  and  youthful  forms  were  there, 
By  kindred  linked,  for  whom  the  sky  of  life 
Was  bright  with  love.     Yet  no  repining  sigh 


CALAIS.  237 

Darkened  their  hour  of  fate.     Well  had  they  taxed 
The  midnight  thought,  and  nerved  the  wearied  arm, 
While  months  and  seasons  thinned  their  wasting  ranks. 
The  harvest  failed,  the  joy  of  vintage  ceased,  — 
Vine-dresser  and  grape-gather  manned  the  walls, 
And  when  they  sank  with  hunger,  others  came, 
Of  cheek  more  pale,  perchance,  but  strong  at  heart. 
Yet  still  those  spectres  poured  their  arrow-flight, 
Or  hurled  the  deadly  stone,  while  at  the  gates 
The  conqueror  of  Cressy  sued  in  vain. 
•'  Lead  them  to  die ! "  he  bade. 

In  nobler  hearts 

There  was  a  throb  of  pity  for  the  foe 
So  fallen  and  so  unblenching  ;  yet  none  dared 
Meet  that  fierce  temper  with  the  word,  forgive  ! 

Who  comes,  with  hasty  step  and  flowing  robe, 

And  hair  so  slightly  bound  ?    The  Queen  !  the  Queen  ! 

An  earnest  pity  on  her  lifted  brow, 

Tears  in  her  azure  eye,  like  drops  of  light. 

What  seeks  she  with  such  fervid  eloquence  ? 

Life  for  the  lost !     And  ever  as  she  fears 

Her  suit  in  vain,  more  wildly  heaves  her  breast, 

In  secrecy  of  prayer,  to  save  her  lord 

From  cruelty  so  dire,  and  from  the  pangs 

Of  late  remorse.     At  first,  the  strong  resolve 

Curled  on  his  lip,  and  raised  his  haughty  head, 

While  every  firm-set  muscle  prouder  swelled 

To  iron  rigor.     Then  his  flashing  eye 

Rested  upon  her,  till  its  softened  glance 


238  CALAIS. 

Confessed  contagion  from  her  tenderness, 
As  with  a  manly  and  chivalrous  grace 
The  boon  he  gave. 

Oh  woman !  ever  seek 
A  victory  like  this  ;  with  heavenly  warmth 
Still  melt  the  icy  purpose,  still  preserve 
From  error's  path  the  heart  that  thou  dost  fold 
Close  in  thine  own  pure  love.     Yes,  ever  be 
The  advocate  of  mercy,  and  the  friend 
Of  those  whom  all  forsake ;  so  may  thy  prayer 
In  thine  adversity,  be  heard  of  Him, 
Who  multiplies  to  pardon. 


Should  any  one  chance  to  have  crossed  the  Atlantic 
without  learning  the  full  import  of  the  compound  word 
sea-sickness^  he  can  obtain  thorough  elementary  in 
struction  on  the  Channel  between  England  and  France. 
Especially,  if  he  embark,  like  us,  ere  a  long  and  fierce 
storm  has  subsided,  he  may  find  a  kind  of  teaching 
which  every  nerve  in  his  body  will  register  on  its  tab 
let,  while  memory  remains. 

The  regular  government-steamer  declining  to  put 
forth,  on  account  of  stress  of  weather,  we  being  wearied 
with  our  stay  at  Dover,  were  induced  to  take  passage 
in  a  small  private  boat,  which  proved  scarcely  sea 
worthy.  Our  original  party,  of  Bishop  Williams  and 
his  mother,  young  Mr.  W.  E.  Imlay  and  myself,  had 
acquired  the  agreeable  addition  of  Rev.  Dr.  Woods, 
President  of  Bowdoin  College,  and  Hon.  J.  Dixon  and 


PASSAGE   TO    CALAIS.  239 

his  fair  young  bride,  whose  course  of  united  life,  so 
strikingly  bright  and  beautiful,  had  this  stormy  pre 
lude. 

"NVc  had  not  proceeded  far  on  the  troubled  deep,  ere 
the  billows  broke  over  us,  and  opening  seams  admitted 
an  abundance  of  petty  rills.  Our  poor  little  craft 
seemed  the  scorn  both  of  sea  and  sky,  —  tossed  up  by 
one,  and  beaten  back  by  the  other.  Driven  by  winds, 
and  gorged  with  brine,  it  ran  its  terrible  gauntlet,  reel 
ing  and  groaning  at  the  stroke  of  every  new  surge. 

The  attitudes  of  the  voyagers  defied  the  pencil's 
power.  There  were  no  couches  to  fall  upon,  it  being  a 
day -boat,  and  having  but  little  available  space  of  any 
kind.  One  passenger,  drenched  to  the  skin,  burst  into 
peals  of  hysterical  laughter ;  another,  the  bearer  of 
French  despatches,  exclaimed,  at  every  fresh  ablution, 
"  Sacre  Dieu  !  "  and  leaped  like  a  roasted  chestnut.  I 
had  taken  refuge,  by  permission,  below,  in  a  kind  of 
cabin,  or  rubbish-hole,  where  was  a  rickety  lounge,  cov 
ered  with  cast-off  garments.  Thither  ran  the  sailors, 
unconscious  of  a  stranger's  proximity,  to  get  a  drink  of 
brandy,  swearing  that  we  should  all  go  to  the  bottom. 
Thither  came  the  captain,  thrusting  into  the  gaping 
crevices  whatever  of  a  pliant  nature  he  could  lay  his 
hand  upon.  At  length,  seizing  his  large  cyphering- 
slate,  he  drove,  with  tremendous  force,  nails  through  its 
frame,  to  oppose  the  progress  of  a  leak.  Yet,  amid 
all  our  helplessness  and  peril,  did  the  good  Lord  deliver 
us.  Praise  to  His  mercy. 


240  TRAVELLING    IN    FRANCE. 

Most  grateful  were  we  to  find  stable  footing  on  the 
Gallic  shore ;  and  after  the  usual  examinations  at  the 
custom-house,  and  obtaining  new  passports,  ordered  a 
comfortable  fire  for  our  chilled  limbs,  and  conversed 
with  varied  emotions,  on  what  we  had  endured  amjd 
those  wrathful  Straits  of  Dover,  "  mounting  up  to  the 
heavens,  going  down  again  to  the  depths,  our  souls 
melted  because  of  trouble." 

It  was  not  until  the  evening  of  the  following  day, 
that  we  felt  sufficiently  reinstated  to  make  trial  of  the 
movements  of  a  French  diligence.  At  the  hour  of 
nine,  off  set  the  cumbrous  machine,  drawn  by  five 
horses,  carrying  in  the  coupe  three  persons,  in  the  in- 
terieur  six,  in  the  rear  compartment  three,  and  on  the 
top  an  unknown  number,  beside  the  conducteur  and  his 
compagnon. 

The  country  in  the  vicinity  of  Calais  is  flat,  the 
roads  drained  by  a  kind  of  canal  on  each  side,  and 
planted  with  clumsy  trees.  These  were  partially  de 
nuded,  but  the  verdure  of  the  fields  was  deep  and 
bright  as  in  Summer.  The  processes  of  agriculture 
seemed  rude,  and  the  ploughs  of  an  awkward  construc 
tion,  mounted  on  wheels.  Frequent  stacks  of  grain 
and  hay  told  of  a  plentiful  harvest,  and  here  and  there 
the  scathed  grape-vine  climbed  with  its  crisp  tendril  to 
the  eves,  or  over  the  tiled  roof  of  some  lowly  dwelling. 
Many  of  the  hovels  were  miserably  planted  in  the 
midst  of  an  expanse  of  mud,  in  which  the  poor  peas 
ants  paddled  whenever  they  stepped  from  the  doors. 


ARRIVAL    AT    PARIS.  241 

We  looked  in  vain  for  the  white  cottages  of  England, 
so  beautiful  with  their  trim  hedges  and  lingering  blos 
soms. 

At  St.  Omers,  a  fortified  town  of  gloomy  aspect, 
where  we  stopped  a  few  minutes  for  refreshment,  we 
were  first  initiated  into  the  terrible  mendicity  of 
France.  Every  age  and  condition  of  suffering  human 
ity  beset  us,  and  cried  at  every  crevice  of  our  vehicle 
with  the  most  piteous  and  persevering  tones. 

Being  fatigued  with  sitting  twenty  hours  in  the  dili 
gence,  with  scarcely  an  opportunity  to  change  our 
position,  we  decided  to  rest  at  Amiens  for  a  night  and 
day.  We  visited  the  cathedral,  which  is  a  grand,  im 
posing  building,  both  in  architecture  and  decorations, 
heard  the  regular  daily  service  performed,  and  saw 
many  superb  monuments  and  shrines,  before  which 
candles  were  perpetually  burning.  At  seven  in  the 
evening,  we  recommenced  another  journey  of  twenty 
hours,  stopping  only  a  few  moments  at  Clermont,  at 
three  in  the  morning.  The  moon  occasionally  pierc 
ing  the  clouds  reflected  the  shadow  of  our  ludicrous 
and  rumbling  equipage,  like  a  house  on  wheels,  drawn 
sometimes  by  six,  and  at  others  by. seven  horses,  over 
wet  and  heavy  roads ;  and  delighted  were  we  when, 
at  the  Hotel  Meurice,  opposite  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries,  we  found  refreshment  and  repose. 

'T  was  pleasant  thus  to  see  the  vales  of  France, 
Green  as  tho'  Summer's  spirit  lingered  there, 
16 


242  PARIS. 

Tho'  the  crisp  vine-leaf  told  its  Autumn-tale, 

While  the  brown  windmills  spread  their  flying  arms 

To  every  fickle  breeze.     The  singing-girl 

Awoke  her  light  guitar,  and  featly  danced 

To  her  own  madrigals  ;   but  the  low  hut 

Of  the  poor  peasant  seemed  all  comfortless, 

And  his  harsh-featured  wife,  made  swarth  by  toils 

Unfeminine,  with  no  domestic  smile 

Cheered  her  sad  children,  plunging  their  dark  feet 

Deep  in  the  miry  soil. 

At  intervals 

Widely  disjoined,  where  clustering  roofs  arose, 
The  cry  of  shrill  mendicity  went  up, 
And  at  each  window  of  our  vehicle, 
Hand,  hat,  and  basket  thrust,  and  the  wild  eye 
Of  clamorous  children,  eager  for  a  coin, 
Assailed  our  every  pause.     At  first,  the  pang 
Of  pity  moved  us,  and  we  vainly  wished 
For  wealth  to  fill  each  meagre  hand  with  gold ; 
But  oft  besought,  suspicion  steeled  the  heart, 
And  'neath  the  guise  of  poverty,  we  deemed 
Vice  or  deception  lurked.     So  on  we  passed 
Save  when  an  alms  some  white-haired  form  implored, 
Bowed  down  with  age ;  or  some  pale,  pining  babe, 
Froze  into  silence  by  its  misery, 
Clung  to  the  sickly  mother.     On  we  passed, 
In  homely  diligence,  like  cumbrous  house, 
Tripartite  and  well-peopled,  its  lean  steeds 
Rope-harnessed  and  grotesque,  while  the  full  moon 


ARUIVAL    AT    PARIS.  243 


Silvered  our  weary  caravan,  that  wrought 
Untiring,  night  and  day,  until  the  towers 
Of  fair  St.  Denis,  where  the  garnered  dust 
Of  many  a  race*  of  Gallic  monarchs  sleeps, 
Gleamed  through  the  misty  morning,  and  we  gained 
The  gates  of  Paris. 


OBELISK  OF  LUXOR. 


AMONG  the  conspicuous  objects  that  in  Paris,  by 
their  number  and  beauty,  astonish  the  stranger,  he  will 
find  himself  early  attracted  to  the  ancient  obelisk  of 
Luxor.  A  single  shaft  of  red  sienite,  it  is  covered 
with  hieroglyphics,  most  of  which  refer  to  Sesostris, 
during  whose  reign  it  was  originally  erected. 

It  finds  its  new  home  in  the  Place  la  Concorde, 
known  during  the  reign  of  the  Bourbons,  as  the  Place 
Louis  Fifteenth,  and  christened  in  the  time  of  terror 
the  Place  de  la  Revolution.  Fearful  baptisms  of  blood 
has  that  spot  known,  from  the  trampling  down  of  thou 
sands,  in  the  fatal  rush  at  the  marriage  festival  of  Louis 
Sixteenth,  to  the  sad  spectacle  of  his  own  decapitation, 
and  that  of  the  throng  who  night  and  day  fed  the  guil 
lotine.  In  the  two  years  that  succeeded  his  death, 
more  than  two  thousand  persons,  of  both  sexes,  were 
executed  here,  until  it  was  said,  that  the  soil,  pampered 
with  its  terrible  aliment,  rose  up,  and  burst  open,  and 
refused  to  be  trodden  down  like  other  earth. 

In  such  good  preservation  is  this  relic  of  antiquity 
and  art,  that  the  mind  is  slow  in  believing  that  nearly 


OBELISK   OF    LUXOR.  245 

three  thousand  four  hundred  years  have  elapsed  since 
it  was  first  placed  in  front  of  the  great  temple  of  Thebes, 
the  modern  Luxor.  It  was  given,  with  another  of  the 
same  size,  by  the  Viceroy  of  Egypt  to  the  French  gov 
ernment.  But  such  were  the  difficulties  to  be  over 
come  in  its  transportation,  that  the  removal  of  its  part 
ner  has  never  been  attempted.  The  labor  of  taking  it 
down,  and  conveying  it  to  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  occu 
pied  eight  hundred  men  for  three  months.  A  road  had 
to  be  constructed,  and  a  vessel  built  on  purpose  to 
receive  it.  The  latter  was  obliged  to  be  sawn  off  ver 
tically,  to  accommodate  the  ponderous  passenger,  which 
performed  its  voyage  with  peril.  Three  years  after 
its  separation  from  its  original  site  it  arrived  in  Paris, 
and  in  three  more  years,  by  the  most  ingenious  and 
powerful  machinery,  its  final  elevation  in  its  new  home 
was  effected.  It  stands  on  a  pedestal  of  granite  in  the 
midst  of  an  eliptical  plateau,  paved  with  asphaltum. 
Two  magnificent  fountains  throw  up  their  silver  waters, 
which  fall,  with  a  pleasant  sound,  into  vast  circular  ba 
sins  incrusted  with  marble  ;  while  Tritons  and  Nereids, 
attended  by  swans  and  dolphins,  hasten  to  welcome  the 
wonderful  guest.  Colossal  statues  stand  around  in  their 
majesty,  to  do  it  honor ;  hoary  Ocean, —  the  classic  Med 
iterranean, —  Agriculture  soliciting  the  gifts  of  earth,  — 
Commerce  gathering  riches  from  the  sea,  —  and  Astron 
omy  with  her  soul  among  the  stars.  Personifications 
of  the  Rhine  and  the  Rhone,  with  the  Genii  of  Flow 
ers  and  Fruits,  of  Vintage  and  of  the  Harvest,  express 


24C  OBELISK    OF    LUXOR. 

the  hospitalities  of  France.     Old  Egypt  rests  among 
them  and  is  satisfied. 


Thou  here  !     What  but  a  miracle  could  tear 

Thee  from  thine  old  and  favorite  spot  of  birth  ? 
And  o'er  the  wave  thy  ponderous  body  bear, 

Making  thee  thus  at  home  in  foreign  earth  ? 
While  countless  throngs  with  curious  glance  regard 
Thy   strange   and   sanguine   face,  with   hieroglyphics 
scarred. 

Thou  hadst  a  tedious  voyage,  I  suppose, 

Sea-sickness  and  rough  rocking,  —  was  it  so  ? 
Thou  wert  as  Jonah  to  the  mariners, 

I  understand,  and  wrought  them  mickle  woe  ; 
And  when  the  port  was  reached,  they  feared  with  pain 
Thou  ne'er  would'st  raise  thy  head,  or  be  thyself  again. 

Dost  think  thy  brother  Monolinth  will  dare, 

Like  thee,  the  dangers  of  the  deep  to  meet  ? 
I  learn  he  has  the  viceroy's  leave  to  take 

The  tour,  his  education  to  complete  : 
Thy  warm,  fraternal  heart  right  glad  would  be 
Here,  in  this  stranger-land,  his  honest  face  to  see. 

What  canst  thou  tell  us  ?  thou  whose  wond'rous  date 
Doth  more  than  half  our  planet's  birthdays  meas 
ure  ! 

Saw'st  thou  Sesostris,  in  his  regal  state, 

Ruling  the  conquered  nations  at  his  pleasure  ? 


OBELISK    OF    LUXOR.  247 

And  arc  those  stories  true,  by  History  told, 

Of  hundred-gated  Thebes,  with  all  her  power  and  gold? 

Didst  hear  how  hard  the  yoke  of  bondage  pressed 

On  Israel's  chosen  race,  by  Nilus'  strand  ? 
And  how  the  awful  seer,  with  words  of  flame, 

Did  in  the  presence  of  the  tyrant  stand, 
When  with  dire  plagues  the  hand  of  Heaven  was  red, 
And  stiff-necked  Egypt  shrieked  o'er  all  her  first-born 
dead  ? 

Tell  us  who  built  the  pyramids, —  and  why 

They  took  such  pains  those  famous  tombs  to  rear, 
Yet  chanced  at  last  to  let  their  names  slip  by, 
And  drown  in  dark  oblivion's  waters  drear  ; 
Paris,  though  so  polite,  can  scarce  restrain 
A  smile  at  such  mistake  and  toil,  for  honors  vain. 

Didst  e'er  attend  a  trial  of  the  dead  ? 

Pray,  tell  us  where  the  judges  held  their  seat ; 
And  touch  us  just  the  key-note  of  the  tune, 

Which  statuedMemnon  breathed,  the  morn  to  greet ; 
Or  sing  of  Isis'  priests  the  vesper-chime; 
Or  doth  thy  memory  fail  beneath  the  weight  of  time  ? 

How  little  did'st  thou  dream,  in  youth,  to  be 

So  great  a  traveller  in  thy  hoary  years, 
And  here,  in  lilied  France,  to  take  thy  stand, 

The  silvery  fountains  playing  round  thine  ears, 
And  groves  and  gardens  stretching  'neath  thy  feet, 
Where  sheds  the  lingering  sun  his  parting  lustres  sweet. 


248  OBELISK    OF    LUXOR. 

Yet  beautiful  thou  art  in  majesty, 

As  ancient  oracle,  from  Delphic  shrine, 
Which  by  the  Ocean  cast  on  foreign  shore, 
Claims  worship  for  its  mysteries  divine ; 
And  Egypt  hath  been  prodigally  kind, 
Such  noble  gift  to  send,  to  keep  her  love  in  mind. 

The  earth  whereon  thou  standest  hath  been  red 

And  saturate  with  blood,  and  at  the  rush 
Of  those  who  came  to  die,  hath  quaked  with  dread, 
As  though  its  very  depths  did  shrink  and  blush, 
Like  Eden's  soil,  when  first  the  purple  tide 
It  drank  with  shuddering  lip,  and  to  its  Maker  cried. 

Be  as  a  guardian  to  this  new-found  home, 

That  fondly  wooed  thee  o'er  the  billows  blue, 
For  't  were  a  pity  sure,  to  come  so  far, 

And  know  so  much,  and  yet  no  good  to  do  :  — 
So,  from  the  "  Place  la  Concorde,"  blot  the  shame, 
And  bid  it  lead  a  life  more  worthy  of  its  name. 


PERE  LA  CHAISE. 


THAT  portion  of  Mont  Louis  which  is  appropriated 
to  the  most  beautiful  of  the  four  cemeteries,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Paris,  was  originally  a  part  of  the 
garden  and  pleasure-grounds  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  the 
favorite  confessor  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and  Mad 
ame  de  Maintenon.  It  covers  nearly  one  hundred 
acres,  and  its  mixture  of  funereal  foliage  and  flowers, 
with  the  monuments  of  the  dead,  is  picturesque  and 
imposing.  Yet  it  is  less  touching  in  its  effect  on  the 
feelings,  than  the  labyrinthine  solitudes  of  Mount 
Auburn,  or  the  sweet  spot  where  the  dead  repose  at 
Laurel  Hill,  on  the  green  margin  of  the  Schuylkill,  or 
the  still  more  perfect  Greenwood.  Forty  years  have 
not  elapsed  since  it  was  set  apart  for  this  sacred  ser 
vice.  The  first  corpse  was  laid  here  on  the  21st  of 
May,  1804  ;  since  which,  in  a  period  of  thirty-six  years, 
there  have  been  more  than  one  hundred  thousand 
interments,  and  sixteen  thousand  monuments  erected. 
These  are  in  every  diversified  form,  of  column,  urn, 
and  altar,  pyramid,  obelisk,  and  sepulchral  chapel  ; 
many  of  them  surrounded  by  enclosures,  within  which 


250  MONUMENTS. 

are  plants,  and  flowering  shrubs,  and  seats  for  mourn 
ing  friends,  when  they  visit  the  departed. 

The  monument  to  Abelard  and  Heloise,  is  of  Gothic 
A  architecture,  and  constructed  from  the  ruins  of  the 
f abbey  of  the  Paraclete.  Its  form  is  a  parallelogram, 
fourteen  feet  by  eleven,  and  twenty-four  in  height.  A 
pinnacle,  twelve  feet  in  elevation,  rises  from  the  cen 
tre  of  the  roof,  and  four  smaller  ones,  finely  sculptured, 
ornament  the  corners.  It  has  fourteen  columns,  six 
feet  in  height,  with  rich  capitals,  and  the  arches  which 
they  support  are  surmounted  by  cornices  wrought  with 
flowers.  The  four  pediments  are  decorated  with  bas- 
reliefs,  roses,  and  medallions.  The  statues  of  Heloise 
and  Abelard  are  recumbent  within,  and  literally 
heaped  with  garlands.  Their  bones  repose  in  the  vault 
beneath ;  those  of  Abelard  having  been  removed  from 
the  priory  of  St.  Marcel,  where  he  died  in  1142,  and 
those  of  Heloise,  who  survived  him  about  twenty  years, 
from  the  Paraclete,  of  which  she  was  abbess. 

The  tomb  of  the  unfortunate  Madame  Blanchard, 
who  fell  a  victim  to  her  aeronautic  ardor,  is  surmounted 
by  a  globe  in  flames.  The  inventor  of  gas-lights  is 
also  honored  by  a  gilded  flame  issuing  from  an  urn. 
On  the  monument  of  the  benevolent  Abbe  Sicard,  rise 
six  beautifully  sculptured  marble  hands,  each  forming, 
with  its  fingers,  one  of  the  letters  of  his  name,  accord 
ing  to  the  manual  alphabet  of  the  deaf  and  dumb,  his 
indebted  and  affectionate  pupils.  On  the  tomb  of 
Gretry,  the  musical  composer,  hangs  a  lyre,  and  on 
that  of  La  Fontaine  sits  very  composedly  a  black  fox, 


MONUMENTS.  251 

while  two  bas-reliefs,  in  bronze,  represent,  one  his 
fable  of  the  wolf  and  stork,  the  other  that  of  the  wolf 
and  lamb.  Parmentier,  to  whom  France  owed  the 
general  cultivation  of  the  potato,  has  an  elegant  mon 
ument,  and  Denon,  the  traveller,  a  pedestal  surmounted 
by  his  statue,  in  bronze.  Deeply  shaded  by  lime  trees, 
is  a  tomb  in  the  form  of  a  cottage,  where  reposes  Fred 
eric  Mestezart,  the  beloved  pastor  of  a  church  in 
Geneva ;  and  the  Russian  Countess  Demidoff  is  inter 
red  beneath  a  superb  temple  of  the  richest  white  mar 
ble,  supported  by  ten  columns,  having  in  the  interior  a 
recumbent  statue  on  an  altar-tomb,  with  her  arms  and 
coronet.  From  the  tomb  of  La  Place  rises  an  obelisk, 
crowned  with  an  urn,  and  ornamented  by  a  star  and 
palm  branches,  encircling  inscriptions  and  eulogies  on 
his  works.  A  splendid  sepulchral  chapel,  surmounted 
by  a  temple,  is  erected  to  the  memory  of  General  Foy, 
whose  statue  is  represented  in  the  act  of  haranguing 
the  people.  The  military  taste  of  France  is  seen  in 
the  pomp  and  lavish  expense  with  which  the  sepul 
chres  of  her  chiefs  are  adorned.  Marshal  Davoust  has 
a  pyramid  of  granite ;  Massena,  one  of  white  marble, 
twenty -one  feet  in  height ;  Le  Fevre,  a  magnificent 
sarcophagus,  where  two  figures  of  Fame  are  crowning 
his  bust,  and  a  serpent,  the  emblem  of  immortality, 
encircling  his  sword ;  while  Ney,  the  "  bravest  of  the 
brave,"  sleeps  unmarked,  save  by  a  single  cypress. 

It  was  not  without  surprise  that  I  found  so  many 
from  my  own  dear  land,  in  this  receptacle  of  the  dead. 
Five  States, —  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  Massachusetts, 


252  MONUMENTS. 

Connecticut  and  Tennessee,  —  have  sent  a  delegation  of 
their  sons  and  daughters  to  the  sepulchres  of  a  foreign 
clime.  The  names  of  each,  though  almost  all  person 
ally  unknown,  touched  the  chords  of  tender  sympathy, 
as  if  for  a  relative  or  friend.  One  of  these,  for  many 
years  a  resident  in  Boston,  though  a  native  of  Portu 
gal,  will  awaken  the  affectionate  recollections  of  some 

who  knew  and  respected  her. 

v 

Died, 
March  1st,  1832, 

Frances  Ann, 

Countess  Colonna  de  Walewski, 
Widow  of  the  late  General  Humphreys, 

of  the  United  States, 
Minister  in  Spain  and  Portugal. 

Trees  and  shrubs  of  slight  root  and  rapid  growth, 
adorn  that  part  of  the  cemetery  which  is  appropriated 
to  the  common  people.  They  are  buried  in  temporary 
graves,  the  better  class  of  which  may  be  held  for  ten 
years  by  a  payment  of  fifty  francs,  after  which  term 
they  are  revertible  to  the  cemetery,  even  though  mon 
uments  should  have  been  erected  upon  them.  The 
other  class,  or  the  fosses  communes,  are  where  the  poor 
are  gratuitously  buried  in  coffins  laid  side  by  side,  with 
out  any  intervening  space.  This  spot  is  reopened  and 
buried  over  again  every  five  years;  that  period  of 
time  being  allowed  for  the  decomposition  of  the  bodies. 
The  wooden  crosses,  which  designate  the  respective 


GRAVES    OF    THE   POOR.  253 

graves,  have  occasionally  an  inscription,  touching  from 
its  simplicity.  One  commemorates 

"  Pauvre  Marie ! 
A  29  ans." 

The  truth  of  the  pathetic  sentiment  of  the  Bard  of  the 
"  Country  Church  Yard,"  — 

"  For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned  ?  " 

is  illustrated  by  many  simple  plants,  little  borders  of 
box,  and  similar  fragile  decorations  of  the  temporary 
graves  of  the  humble  dead. 


I  stood  amid  the  dwellings  of  the  dead 

And  saw  the  gayest  city  of  the  earth 

Spread  out  beneath  me.     Cloud  and  sunlight  lay 

Upon  her  palaces  and  gilded  domes, 

In  slumbrous  beauty.    Through  the  streets  flowed  on, 

In  ceaseless  stream,  gay  equipage  and  throng, 

As  fashion  led  the  way.     Look  up  !  look  up  ! 

Mont  Louis  hath  a  beacon.     Wheresoe'er 

Ye  seem  to  tend,  so  lightly  dancing  on 

In  your  enchanted  maze,  a  secret  spell 

Is  on  your  footsteps,  and  unseen  they  haste 

Where  ye  would  not,  and  whence  ye  ne'er  return. 

Blind  pilgrims  are  we  all  !     We  close  our  eyes 

On  the  swift  torrent  that  o'erwhelms  our  race, 

And  in  our  spanlike  path  the  goal  forget, 


254  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

Until  the  shadows  lengthen,  and  we  sink 
To  rise  no  more. 

Methinks  the  monster,  Death, 
Wears  not  such  visage  here,  so  grim  and  gaunt 
With  terror,  as  he  shows  in  other  lands. 
Robing  himself  in  sentiment,  he  wraps 
His  dreary  trophies  in  a  veil  of  flowers, 
And  makes  his  tombs  like  temples,  or  a  home 
So  sweet  to  love,  that  grief  doth  fleet  away. 
—  I  saw  a  mother  mourning.     The  fair  tomb 
Was  like  a  little  chapel,  hung  with  wreath, 
And  crucifix.     And  there  she  spread  the  toys 
That  her  lost  babe  had  loved,  as  if  she  found 
Sad  solace  in  the  memory  of  its  sports. 
Tears  flowed  like  pearl-drops,  yet  without  the  pang 
That  wrings  and  rends  the  heart-strings.     It  would 

seem 

A  tender  sorrow,  scarce  of  anguish  born, 
So  much  the  influence  of  surrounding  charms 
Did  mitigate  it. 

Mid  the  various  groups 
That  visited  the  dead,  I  marked  the  form 
Of  a  young  female  winding  through  the  shades. 
Just  at  that  point  she  seemed,  where  childhood  melts 
But  half  away,  as  snows  that  feel  the  sun, 
Yet  shrinking  closer  to  their  shaded  nook, 
Delay  to  swell  the  sparkling  stream  of  youth. 
She  had  put  off  her  sabots  at  the  gate, 
Heavy  with  clay,  and  to  a  new-made  grave 
Hasted  alone.     Upon  its  wooden  cross 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  255 

She  placed  her  chaplet,  and  with  whispering  lips, 
Perchance  in  prayer,  perchance  in  converse  low 
With  the  loved  sluinberer,  knelt,  and  strewed  the 

seeds 

Of  flowers  among  the  mould.     A  shining  mass 
Of  raven  tresses  'scaped  amid  the  toil 
From  their  accustomed  boundary  ;  but  her  eyes, 
None  saw  them,  for  she  heeded  not  the  tread 
Of  passers-by.     Her  business  was  with  those 
Who  slept  below.     'T  would  seem  a  quiet  grief, 
And  yet  absorbing ;  such  as  a  young  heart 
Might  for  a  sister  feel,  ere  it  had  learned 
A  deeper  love. 

Come  to  yon  stately  dome, 
With  arch  and  turret,  every  shapely  stone 
Breathing  the  legends  of  the  Paraclete, 
Where  slumber  Abelard  and  Heloise, 
'Neath  such  a  world  of  wreaths,  that  scarce  ye  see 
Their  marble  forms,  recumbent,  side  by  side. 
On !  on !  —  this  populous  spot  hath  many  a  fane, 
To  win  the  stranger's  admiration.     See 
La  Fontaine's  fox-crowned  cenotaph  ;  and  his 
Whose  "  Mecanique  Celeste"  hath  writ  his  name 
Among  the  stars  ;  and  hers  who,  soaring  high 
In  silken  globe,  found  a  strange  death  by  fire 
Amid  the  clouds. 

The  dead  of  distant  lands 

Are  gathered  here.     In  pomp  of  sculpture  sleeps 
The  Russian  Demidoff;  and  Britain's  sons 
Have  crossed  the  foaming  sea,  to  leave  their  dust 


256  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

In  a  strange  soil.     Yea,  from  my  own  far  home 
They  've  wandered  here  to  die.     Were  there   not 

graves 

Enough  among  our  forests  ?  by  the  marge 
Of  our  broad  streams  ?  amid  the  hallowed  mounds 
Of  early  kindred  ?  that  ye  needs  must  come 
This  weary  way,  to  share  the  strangers'  bed, 
My  people  ?     I  could  weep  to  find  ye  here  ! 
And  yet  your  names  are  sweet,  the  words  ye  grave 
In  the  loved  language  of  mine  infancy, 
Most  pleasant  to  the  eye,  involved  so  long 
Mid  foreign  idioms. 

Yonder  height  doth  boast 
The  warrior-chiefs,  who  led  their  legions  on 
To  sack  and  siege  ;  whose  heavy  tramp  disturbed 
The  Cossack  in  his  hut,  the  Alpine  birds 
Who  build  above  the  cloud,  and  Egypt's  slaves, 
Crouching  beneath  their  sky-crowned  pyramids. 
How  silent  are  they  all !     No  warning  trump 
Amid  their  host !  no  steed  !  no  frantic  foot 
Of  those  who  rush  to  battle  !     Haughtily 
The  aspiring  marble  tells  each  passing  group 
Their  vaunted  fame.     Oh,  shades  of  mighty  men  ! 
Went  these  proud  honors  with  you,  where  the  spear 
And  shield  resound  no  more  ?     Cleaves  the  blood 
stain 

Around  ye  there?     Steal  the  deep-echoing  groans 
Of  those  who  fell,  the  cry  of  those  who  mourned, 
Across  the  abyss  that  bars  you  from  our  sight, 
Waking  remorseful  pangs  ? 


LA   CHAISE.  257 


We  may  not  ask 

With  hope  of  answer.     But  the  time  speeds  on, 
When  all  shall  know. 

There  is  the  lowly  haunt, 
Where  rest  the  poor.     No  towering  obelisk 
Beareth  their  name.     No  blazoned  tablet  tells 
Their  joys  or  sorrows.     Yet  't  is  sweet  to  muse 
Around  their  pillow  of  repose,  and  think 
That  Nature  mourns  their  loss,  though  man  forget. 
The  lime-tree  and  acacia,  side  by  side, 
Spring  up,  in  haste  to  do  their  kindly  deed 
Of  sheltering  sympathy,  as  though  they  knew 
Their  time  was  short. 

Sweet  Nature  ne'er  forgets 
Her  buried  sons,  but  cheers  their  Summer  couch 
With  turf  and  dew-drops,  bidding  Autumn's  hand 
Drop  lingering  garlands  of  its  latest  leaves, 
And  glorious  Spring  from  Wintry  thraldom  burst, 
To  bring  their  type  of  Immortality. 


17 


RETURN  OF  THE  ASHES  OF  NAPOLEON. 


WE  considered  ourselves  fortunate  to  have  been  in 
Paris  at  the  time  of  the  return  of  the  ashes  of  Napo 
leon ;  a  pageant  which  so  many  came  from  distant 
climes  expressly  to  witness.  Twelve  of  us,  Americans, 
obtained,  by  seasonable  negotiation,  an  apartment,  with 
large  windows,  in  the  Champs  Elysees,  near  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe,  from  whence  to  view  the  scene.  Thither 
we  drove,  immediately  after  an  early  breakfast ;  yet 
even  then  it  was  difficult,  and  almost  alarming,  to  ven 
ture  through  the  immense  crowd. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  December  15th, 
1840,  that  this  unparalleled  event  took  place.  The 
atmosphere  was  intensely  cold.  That  night  the  Seine 
froze  entirely  over,  bridging  with  crystal  the  last 
march  of  the  silent  conqueror.  The  streets  were  lined 
by  soldiers,  standing  immovable  as  statues.  Through 
their  avenue,  came  in  procession,  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  of  the  finest  cavalry  and  infantry,  in  all  the  daz 
zling  hues  of  costume  and  military  pomp.  The  ab 
sence  of  martial  music,  and  the  rapidity  of  their  move 
ment,  on  account  of  the  singular  severity  of  the  weath 
er,  produced  a  strange  illusion,  like  the  rushing  of  some 


THE    PROCESSION.  259 

splendid  and  terrific  vision.  The  lofty  and  gilded  car, 
that  bore  the  remains  of  the  hero,  was  drawn  by  six 
teen  horses,  with  white  plumes,  and  caparisoned  in 
cloth  of  gold.  Upon  it  stood  some  distinguished  per 
sonages,  among  whom  I  recognized  the  venerable  Mar 
shal  Soult.  It  was  said  there  were  350,000  men  under 
arras,  and  more  than  a  million  of  people  in  the  streets. 

This  welcome  of  the  illustrious  dead,  back  from  an 
exile's  tomb,  to  the  place  of  his  old,  imperial  throne, 
was  imposing  and  mournful  beyond  description.  Yet 
there  was  no  demonstration  of  enthusiasm  on  the  part 
of  the  populace,  as  the  funeral  procession  of  their  idol 
ized  hero  passed  onward.  The  sight  of  a  majestic  war- 
horse,  without  a  rider,  following  at  slow  and  solemn 
pace,  the  gorgeous  car,  awoke  something  like  a  burst 
of  sympathy.  The  thrilling  heart  made  no  chronolo 
gical  computation,  nor  paused  to  realize,  that  from  the 
lapse  of  years  he  could  never  have  borne  to  battle  the 
master  for  whom  he  thus  seemed  to  mourn. 

Every  spectator  was  impressed  by  the  dignity  of 
manner,  and  the  fitness  of  the  few  words  of  Louis 
Philippe,  when  he  received  the  remains  of  the  mighty 
dead.  The  Prince  de  Joinville,  who  had  been  com 
missioned  to  bring  the  bones  of  Bonaparte  from  St. 
Helena,  said,  "  Sire,  I  present  you  the  ashes  of  the 
Emperor."  And  the  king  answered,  "  I  receive  them 
in  the  name  of  the  French  people." 

The  music  of  the  grand  and  elaborate  requiem,  per 
formed  at  these  obsequies,  was  immediately  destroyed, 
to  preclude  its  repetition  on  any  other  occasion. 


o  gQ  CHAPEL    OF    THE    INVALIDS. 

The  chapel  belonging  to  the  Hotel  des  Invalides, 
Where  the  bones  of  Bonaparte  reposed  in  state  for  a 
ortnight,  was  continually  .toed  by  hundreds  of  thou 
sands    with  unabated  curiosity.     It  £"JJ»J^ 
bv  smalllamps  from  above,  so  arranged  as  to  cast  a 
tJemlus  ray  amid  the  darkness  that  reigned  around, 
£S  day  and  nigbt  the  same,  and  heightenmg  the 
Solemnly  of  the  scene.    Magnificent  fau.gu.gs  of  pur- 
1  velvet,  studded  with  massy  golden  bees,  were  taste- 
£y  disposed  at  the  entrance,  while  the  banners  of 
Austeri  and  many  other  battles,  were  wrc  ,thed 
around  the  lofty  columns,  and  shadowed  the  coffin  o 
L  who  had  won  them.    Our  visit  was  on  the  la  t 
mornin"  before  the  interment,  when  none  were  adm  - 
Ted  but  peers,  and  such  as  could  obtain  peers'  medals. 
Serti'  groups,  might  be  seen  some  of  >.to  an-n 
regime,  whose  memories   extended   to   the  tunes 
royalty,  when  the   blood  .«* 


a-- 

"u  note,  or  in  the  prisons  of  the  revolution.   Arounc 
L  coffin,  on  whose  sides  the  initial  N  was  deeply 

-:±:s'» 


wfaat  would  be  the  glory  of  the  warnor,  when 
judgeth  the  soul. 


THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON.         2C1 

Ho  !  City  of  the  gay  ! 

Paris !  what  festal  rite 
Doth  call  thy  thronging  millions  forth 

All  eager  for  the  sight  ? 
Thy  soldiers  line  the  streets 

In  fixed  and  stern  array, 
With  buckled  helm  and  bayonet, 

As  on  the  battle-day. 

By  square,  and  fountain  side, 

Heads  in  dense  masses  rise, 
And  tower,  and  battlement,  and  tree, 

Are  studded  thick  with  eyes. 
Comes  there  some  conqueror  home 

In  triumph  from  the  fight, 
With  spoil  and  captives  in  his  train, 

The  trophies  of  his  might  ? 

The  "  Arc  de  Triomphe"  glows  ! 

A  martial  host  are  nigh, 
France  pours  in  long  succession  forth 

Her  pomp  of  chivalry. 
No  clarion  marks  their  way, 

No  victor  trump  is  blown  ; 
Why  march  they  on  so  silently, 

Told  by  their  tread  alone  ? 

Behold  !    in  glittering  show, 

A  gorgeous  car  of  state ! 
The  white-plumed  steeds  in  cloth  of  gold, 

Bow  down  beneath  its  weight ; 


262         THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON. 

And  the  noble  war-horse,  led 

Caparisoned  along, 
Seems  fiercely  for  his  lord  to  ask, 

As  his  red  eye  scans  the  throng. 

"Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ? 

The  incense  flameth  high,  — 
Comes  there  some  demi-god  of  old  ? 

No  answer  I  —  no  reply ! 
Who  rideth  on  yon  car  ?  — 

No  shout  his  minions  raise, 
But  by  a  lofty  chapel  dome 

The  muffled  hero  stays. 

A  king  is  standing  there, 

And  with  uncovered  head 
Receives  him  in  the  name  of  France, 

Receiveth  whom  ?  —  the  Dead  ! 
Was  he  not  buried  deep 

In  island-cavern  drear, 
Girt  by  the  sounding  ocean  surge  ? 

How  came  that  sleeper  here  ? 

Was  there  no  rest  for  him 

Beneath  a  peaceful  pall, 
That  thus  he  breaks  his  stony  tomb, 

Ere  the  strong  angel's  call  ? 
Hark  !  hark !  the  requiem  swells, 

A  deep,  soul-thrilling  strain  ! 
An  echo,  never  to  be  heard 

By  mortal  ear  again. 


THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON.         263 

A  requiem  for  the  chief, 

Whose  fiat  millions  slew, 
The  soaring  eagle  of  the  Alps, 

The  crushed  at  Waterloo, 
The  banished  who  returned, 

The  dead  uho  rose  again, 
And  rode  in  his  shroud  the  billows  proud, 

To  the  sunny  banks  of  Seine. 

They  laid  him  there  in  state. 

That  warrior  strong  and  bold, 
The  imperial  crown,  with  jewels  bright, 

Upon  his  ashes  cold  ; 
While  round  those  columns  proud 

The  blazoned  banners  wave, 
That  on  a  hundred  fields  he  won, 

With  the  heart's-blood  of  the  brave. 

And  sternly  there  kept  guard 

His 'veterans  scarred  and  old, 
Whose  wounds  of  Lodi's  cleaving  bridge, 

Or  purple  Leipsic  told. 
Yes,  there,  with  arms  reversed, 

Slow  pacing,  night  and  day, 
Close  watch  beside  the  coffin  kept 

Those  veterans  grim  and  gray. 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow,  — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead? 
Or  memory  of  the  fearful  strife, 

Where  their  country's  legions  fled  ? 


264         THE  RETURN  OF  NAPOLEON. 

Of  Borodino's  blood  ?  ' 

Or  Beresina's  wail  ? 
The  horrors  of  that  dire  retreat, 

Which  turned  old  History  pale  ? 

A  cloud  is  on  their  brow,  — 

Is  it  sorrow  for  the  dead  ? 
Or  a  shuddering  at  the  wintry  shaft 

By  Russian  tempests  sped  ? 
Where  countless  mounds  of  snow 

Marked  the  poor  conscripts'  grave, 
And  pierced  by  frost  and  famine,  sank 

The  bravest  of  the  brave. 

A  thousand  trembling  lamps 

The  gathered  darkness  mock, 
And  velvet  drapes  his  hearse,  who  died 

On  bare  Helena's  rock ; 
And  from  the  altar  near, 

A  never-ceasing  hymn 
Is  lifted  by  the  chanting  priests 

Beside  the  taper  dim. 

Mysterious  One,  and  proud ! 

In  the  land  where  shadows  reign, 
Hast  thou  met  the  flocking  ghosts  of  those 

Who  at  thy  nod  were  slain  ? 
Oh,  when  the  cry  of  that  spectral  host, 

Like  a  rushing  blast  shall  be, 
What  will  thine  answer  be  to  them  ? 

And  what  thy  God's  to  thee  ? 


TOMB  OF  JOSEPHINE. 


THE  monument  to  Josephine,  in  the  village  church 
at  Ruel,  was  erected  by  her  children.  Two  hands, 
sculptured  in  marble,  and  grasping  each  other,  appear 
as  the  symbols  of  their  united  filial  love  ;  and  only  this 
simple  inscription  marks  the  stone  :  — 

To  Josephine, 
From  Eugene  and  Hortense. 

It  is  well  known  that  her  love  to  Napoleon  survived 
the  divorce  to  which  he  exacted  her  consent.  In  her 
seclusion,  she  rejoiced  at  his  prosperity,  or  wept  at  the 
evils  which  his  ambition  drew  upon  him.  One  of  our 
own  writers  has  condensed,  in  a  few  forcible  sentences, 
the  sequel  of  her  life. 

"When  his  son  was  born,  she  only  regretted  that 
she  was  not  near  him  in  his  happiness  ;  and  when  he 
was  sent  to  Elba,  she  begged  that  she  might  be  per 
mitted  to  share  his  prison,  and  cheer  his  woes.  Every 
article  that  he  had  used  at  her  residence,  remained  as 
he  had  left  it.  She  would  not  suffer  a  chair  on  which 
he  had  sat  to  be  removed.  The  book  in  which  he  had 


26G  CHARACTER    OF    JOSEPHINE. 

last  been  reading  was  there,  with  the  page  doubled 
down.  The  pen  which  he  had  last  used  was  there, 
with  the  ink  dried  on  its  point.  When  death  drew 
nigh,  she  wished  to  sell  all  her  jewels,  that  she  might 
send  the  fallen  Emperor  money.  She  died  before  his 
return  from  Elba ;  but  her  last  thoughts  were  of  him 
and  France ;  her  last  words  expressed  the  hope  and 
belief,  that '  she  had  never  caused  a  single  tear  to  flow.' 
Her  body  was  followed  to  the  grave,  in  the  village 
church  of  Ruel,  not  alone  by  princes  and  generals,  but 
by  two  thousand  poor,  whose  hearts  had  been  made 
glad  by  her  bounty." 

It  is  well  known  that  Napoleon  felt  his  fortunes  had 
declined  after  his  divorce  from  Josephine.  He  assert 
ed  that  the  star  of  destiny  was  never  favorable  to  him 
after  that  event.  This  he  repeated  more  than  once, 
during  his  humiliation  at  St.  Helena,  with  a  bitterness 
if  not  of  remorse,  at  least  of  deep  desolation,  which  it 
would  have  been  the  joy  of  her  affectionate  nature  to 
have  soothed  and  comforted. 

He  must  surely  have  been  master  of  many  attrac 
tions,  thus  to  create  an  affection  so  strong  in  a  heart  so 
pure ;  and  touching  is  this  instance  of  woman's  con 
stancy,  that  could  thus  "  love  through  all  things." 


She,  who  o'er  earth's  most  polished  clime 
The  empress-crown  did  wear, 

Who  touched  the  zenith-point  of  power, 
The  nadir  of  despair, 


TOMB    OF    JOSlCriUM  .  2G7 

With  all  her  charms  and  all  her  wrongs, 

Beneath  this  turf  doth  rest, 
Where  fondly  spring  two  clasping  hands, 

To  guard  her  pulseless  breast. 

Say,  did  his  love,  who  ruled  her  heart, 

This  fair  memorial  rear, 
And  soothe  the  unrequited  shade 

With  late,  remorseful  tear  ? 

Came  he,  with  sweet  funereal  flowers 

To  deck  her  couch  of  gloom, 
And  like  repentant  Athens  bless 

The  guiltless  martyr's  tomb  ? 

No  !  —  cold  Ambition's  selfish  soul, 

With  rash  and  ingrate  tone, 
Abjured  the  gentle  hand  that  paved 

His  pathway  to  a  throne : 

While  Fortune's  star  indignant  paled, 

And  hid  its  guiding  ray, 
As  madly  from  his  side  he  thrust 

That  changeless  friend  away. 

Yet  she  to  her  secluded  cell 

No  vengeful  passion  bore, 
Nor  harshly  blamed  his  broken  vows, 

Who  sought  her  smile  no  more  ; 


268  TOMB    OF   JOSEPHINE. 

Still  o'er  the  joys  of  earlier  years, 

With  tender  spirit  hung, 
And  mourned,  when  sorrow  o'er  his  path 

A  blighting  shadow  flung ; 

Gave  thanks,  if  victory's  meteor-wreath 
His  care-worn  temples  bound, 

And  in  the  blessings  of  the  poor, 
Her  only  solace  found. 

And  so  she  died,  and  here  she  sleeps, 

This  village-fane  below ;  — 
Sweet  is  the  memory  of  a  life 
•     That  caused  no  tear  to  flow. 


THE  PRESENTATION. 


PUT  on  your  best,  ray  countrymen,  and  turn 

Your  steeds  toward  the  palace.     You  can  have 

No  just  objection  to  a  call,  I  trust, 

Upon  the  king  and  queen.     For  though  you  're  all 

Such  staunch  republicans,  't  is  plain  to  see 

You  've  quite  a  curiosity  to  know 

How  those  who  wear  a  crown  deport  themselves. 

Well,  there  's  no  harm  in  that. 

But  what  a  show 

Our  sober,  unambitious  gentry  make 
In  regimentals,  with  their  laced  chapeaus, 
En  militaire  !     I'm  sure  the  friends  at  home 
Would  never  know  them,  and  their  babes  would  be 
As  much  alarmed  as  Hector's  when  he  shrank 
Lack  from  the  hero's  helm  and  nodding  plumes, 
Into  his  nurse's  arms.     I  'm  quite  well  versed 
In  that  most  classic  scene,  which  oft  was  wrought 
In  bright  embroidery,"  where  I  went  to  school. 
And  I  have  seen  it  framed,  and  glazed,  and  hung 
On  parlor  walls,  when  I  was  fain  to  think, 
Asking  the  pardon  of  the  fair  who  spent     . 


270  THE   PRESENTATION. 

Eyesight  and  silks  upon  it,  that  its  style 

Artistical,  and  anatomical, 

Was  quite  a  libel  on  the  Trojan  chief, 

And  likewise  on  his  wife  Andromache, 

And  all  their  line.    I  worked  a  piece  myself, 

Equally  shocking,  of  an  ark  and  child, 

And  two  strange-looking  women,  and  a  slice 

Of  a  cream-colored  palace,  trees  arrayed 

In  indigo,  and  umber,  and  gamboge, 

To  show  the  fervor  of  Egyptian  suns, 

As  I  suppose,  —  and  this  my  teacher  called 

The  infant  Moses  in  the  bulrushes. 

I  labored  on  it  most  industriously  ; 

But  since,  when  my  own  children  have  been  scared, 

As  waking  suddenly  from  cradle-dreams, 

They  fixed  their  eyes  upon  it,  I  've  eschewed 

The  deed  most  heartily,  and  felt  ashamed 

That  sacred  themes  should  be  distorted  so. 

And  now  I  wonder  what  odd  trains  of  thought 
Must  needs  bring  back  those  hideous  images, 
At  such  a  time  as  this. 

Friends,  have  a  care, 
And  do  not  let  the  unaccustomed  sword 
Embarrass  your  best  bow,  when  the  French  court 
Shall  give  its  welcome  to  you.    Pray,  make  haste,  — 
Our  kind  ambassador,  with  open  doors 
Awaits  our  coming,  and  't  would  be  indeed 
But  payment  poor  for  all  his  courtesy, 
To  plunge  his  carriage  in  the  gathering  throng 


THi:    I'KESENTATION.  271 

And  have  it  locked  for  hours.     See,  brilliant  lights 

Stream  from  the  Tuileries,  and  in  full  ranks 

Its  officers  and  servitors  are  ranged, 

To  do  their  nation's  honors.     From  the  walls 

Gleam  forth,  in  pictured  bravery  and  pride, 

The  gallant  chiefs  of  France.     On  those  we  gazed 

With  critical  remark,  and  on  the  groups 

That  promenaded  through  the  spacious  halls, 

In  costume  ricli,  the  elite  of  many  lands. 

Ere  long  from  lip  to  lip  the  murmur  spread, 

"  The  king !  the  king ! "  and  so  the  throng  drew  back, 

Each  foreign  region  ranging  'neath  the  wing 

Of  its  'own  minister.     Can  that  be  he  ? 

So  fresh  in  feature  and  of  step  so  firm, 

So  little  worn  by  time  and  adverse  years, 

So  little  wearied  with  his  toils  to  rule 

The  champing  war-horse  of  a  changeful  realm, 

Wild  on  the  rein  ?     Courteous  he  passes  down 

The  extended  line,  with  fitting  phrase  for  all. 

Methought,  with  freer  word  and  favoring  glance, 

He  scanned  the  natives  of  that  western  clime, 

Where,  in  the  exile  of  his  clouded  youth, 

He  found  a  wanderer's  home.     'T  was  sweet  to  hear, 

In  the  bright  throne-room  of  the  Tuileries, 

And  from  the  lips  of  Europe's  oldest  king, 

The  name  of  my  own  river,  and  the  spot 

Where  I  was  born,  coupled  with  kindly  words, 

As  one  tenacious  of  their  scenery, 

Through  many  a  lustrum. 


272  THE    PRESENTATION. 

Then  the  graceful  queen, 
With  gentleness  and  dignity  combined, 
Came  in  his  steps.     On  her  pale  brow  she  bore 
An  impress  of  that  goodness,  which  hath  made 
Her,  as  a  wife  and  mother,  still  the  praise 
And  pattern  of  her  kingdom. 

Then  passed  on 

At  intervals,  each  with  their  separate  suite, 
Princes  and  princess,  and  the  beauteous  bride 
Of  him  of  Orleans,  in  an  English  tongue 
Giving  fair  greetings.     So  the  pageant  closed, 
And  home  we  drove,  well  pleased  at  what  we  saw, 
Nor  with  ourselves  dissatisfied.     We  found 
More  of  simplicity  than  we  had  deemed    • 
Abode  in  courts  ;  and  this  to  us,  who  love 
Our  plain  republic,  was  a  circumstance 
Not  to  be  overlooked.     With  earnest  warmth 
Of  the  chief  lady  of  the  realm  we  spake, 
And  of  her  matron  virtues,  and  that  charm 
Of  manner  which  approves  those  virtues  well 
To  every  eye. 

And  I  was  pleased  to  see 
She  had  the  queenly  grace  of  prudence  too, 
In  lesser  things  ;  and  on  this  wintry  night 
Drew  downward-  to  the  wrist  the  lengthened  sleeve, 
And  bade  her  satin  robe  protect  the  chest, 
Deeming  most  justly  that  vitality 
And  health  outweighed  the  tinsel  modes  of  dress 
Coined  by  the  milliner.     And  I  have  heard 
From  good  authority,  and  am  right  glad 


LOUIS  PHILIPPE'S  RECOLLECTIONS.          273 

To  tell  it  here,  that  many  a  leading  belle 
Of  fashion  and  nobility  in  France 
Abjure  the  corset,  and  maintain  a  form 
Erect  and  graceful,  without  busk  or  cord, 
Ambitious  to  bequeathe  a  name,  unstained 
By  suicide.     Would  that  my  friends  at  home, 
Those  sweet  young  blossoms  on  my  country's  stem, 
Might  credit  the  report,  and  give  their  lungs 
And  heart  fair  play,  and  earn  a  hope  to  reach 
The  dignity  of  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Free  from  the  taint  of  self-derived  disease. 


Louis  Philippe's  recollections  of  his  travels  in  the 
United  States,  of  their  geographical  peculiarities,  and 
even  the  names  of  individuals  whom  he  there  met,  are 
remarkably  vivid.  lie  is  thought  to  have  a  fine  tact  in 
addressing  appropriate  remarks  to  those  with  whom  he 
converses.  When  it  came  my  turn  to  be  spoken  to,  — 
having  been  told,  at  introduction,  that  I  was  a  native 
of  New  England,  —  he  inquired  in  which  of  the  States 
I  raided,  and  at  the  answer,  "  Connecticut,"  quickly 
responded, 

"  Ah !  I  have  been  there.  It  has  a  fine  river,  of 
the  same  name.  I  have  been  at  Norwich  and  New 
London,  at  New  Haven  and  Hartford.  They  are  all 
pleasant  places." 

In  observing  the  florid  complexion  and  animated 
manner  of  the  king,  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  he  has 
numbered  almost  threescore  years  and  ten.  He  is 
18 


274  THE  ROYAL    FAMILY. 

undoubtedly,  at  present,  the  most  remarkable  sover 
eign  in  Europe,  if  we  take  into  view  his  native  endow 
ments,  the  early  and  long  adversity  which  ripened 
energy,  and  deepened  endurance,  and  the  firmness 
with  which  he  surmounted  the  dangers  that  menaced 
his  throne. 

The  queen  is  truly  polite,  and  graceful  in  manner 
and  movement.  Her  virtues,  and  the  sincerity  of  her 
piety,  are  admitted  and  appreciated  by  those  who  re 
tain  prejudices  against  the  ruling  dynasty. 

Madame  Adelaide,  the  sister  of  Louis  Philippe,  has 
a  countenance  beaming  with  good  feelings  ;  and  her 
fond  affection  for  her  royal  brother  forms  a  distinguish 
ing  trait  in  her  character.  The  Duke  of  Orleans  has 
exceedingly  fine  manners,  and  is  a  favorite  with  the 
nation.  Little  did  we  imagine,  while  admiring  his 
noble  countenance,  and  graceful  form,  that  death  was 
so  soon  and  so  mournfully  to  remove,  in  the  prime 
of  his  days,  this  idol  of  his  family  and  of  the  French 
people. 

The  princess  Clementine  and  the  younger  brothers 
make  their  passing  compliments  to  strangers  in  an 
agreeable  way.  In  this  they  are  assisted  by  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  the  English  language,  which  appertains 
to  the  whole  family.  Their  domestic  education  has 
been  conducted  judiciously,  under  the  careful  supervis 
ion  of  both  parents,  and  has  produced  happy  results. 
Louise,  the  queen  of  the  Belgians,  is  exceedingly  re 
spected,  and  the  late  Princess  Marie,  who  married 
Alexander,  Duke  of  Wirtemburg,  was  eminent  for 


GENERAL    CAS3.  275 

native  talent  and  taste  in  the  fine  arts,  especially  for 
her  spirited  performances  in  sculpture,  and  died  deeply 
lamented. 

The  beauty  of  the  young  bride  of  the  Duke  de 
Nemours,  Victoria  of  Saxe  Coburg,  who  made  her 
first  appearance  at  the  French  court  the  present  win 
ter,  is  acknowledged  by  all.  The  royal  family  of 
France  give  an  amiable  example  of  those  domestic 
attachments,  and  that  true  home-happiness,  which  ex 
ercise  so  decided  an  influence  on  the  character  in  the 
period  of  its  formation,  as  well  as  throughout  the  whole 
of  life.  Such  virtues  have  not  always  been  indigenous 
in  the  soil  of  courts,  and  it  is  therefore  the  more  de 
lightful  to  see  them  here,  with  a  vigorous  root  and 
healthful  bloom. 

Our  ambassador,  General  Cass,  is  quite  a  favorite 
at  the  French  court,  and  ever  since  he  has  represented 
his  country  there,  has  been  unwearied  in  his  attentions 
to  American  travellers.  Without  regard  to  political 
creed,  or  other  adventitious  circumstances,  he  extends 
to  them  both  official  aid,  and  a  liberal  and  elegant  hos 
pitality.  To  him,  and  to  his  excellent  lady  and  family, 
as  well  as  to  his  son-in-law,  Hon.  Henry  Ledyard,  our 
Charge  des  Affaires,  and  to  his  mother,  then  tempora 
rily  residing  in  Paris,  we  were  much  indebted  for 
deeds  of  kindness,  invaluable  to  those  who,  in  foreign 
climes,  bear  the  strangers'  heart. 

Our  party  had  been  agreeably  enlarged  by  the  ac 
cession  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Woods,  President  of  Bowdoin 
College  ;  and  likewise  of  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dixon,  and  his 


276  THE    TUILERIES. 

lady,  from  my  own  city,  whose  bridal  tour  was  a  voy 
age  to  Europe.  Their  kind,  considerate  attentions,  if 
either  indisposition  or  home-sickness  threw  transient 
shadow  over  my  path,  partook  so  much  of  the  sym 
pathetic,  filial  character,  as  to  implant  enduring  grat 
itude. 

The  Americans  in  France,  at  this  period,  were  nu 
merous,  and  disposed  to  social  intercourse.  Conspicu 
ous  among  them,  though  always  averse  to  display,  was 
the  Hon.  Martin  Brimmer,  of  Boston,  one  of  the 
most  perfect  gentlemen  and  consistent  Christians  that 
any  nation  could  boast,  and  who,  not  long  after  re 
turning  to  his  native  land,  was  summoned  to  a  "  better 
country,  that  is,  an  heavenly."  Having  been  for  some 
time,  with  his  young  son,  a  resident  in  Paris,  we  prof 
ited  much  by  his  excellent  judgment,  in  the  selec 
tion  of  objects  best  worthy  of  a  traveller's  time  and 
regard. 

In  traversing  the  splendid  apartments  of  the  Tuil- 
eries,  now  the  favorite  residence  of  a  peaceful  dynasty, 
the  mind  involuntarily  turns  to  those  vestiges  of  the 
past,  which  have  given  it  prominence  in  history. 
Among  the  structures  of  the  capital  of  France,  it  early 
attracts  the  notice  of  the  traveller.  Stretching  along 
the  banks  of  the  Seine,  it  is  connected  with  the  Louvre 
by  a  gallery  commenced  during  the  reign  of  Henry 
the  Fourth,  and  finished  under  the  auspices  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth.  Three  sides  of  an  immense  parallel 
ogram  are  thus  formed,  and  it  was  the  intention  of 
Bonaparte  to  have  added  the  fourth,  and  completed 


EVENTS    AT    THE    TUILERIES.  277 

the  most  magnificent  edifice  of  the  kind,  that  modern 
Europe  can  boast. 

As  the  eye  fixes  involuntarily  upon  the  central  pa 
vilion,  past  scenes  and  events  of  other  days  sweep  by, 
like  living  pictures.  Francis  the  First,  seems  to  pass 
proudly  in  his  royal  robes,  bearing  upon  his  arm  his 
intriguing  mother,  Louise  of  Savoy,  for  whom  he  pur 
chased  the  hotel  which  originally  occupied  the  site 
of  this  palace,  somewhat  more  than  three  centuries 
since. 

Ninety  years  after,  we  see  Henry  the  Third  hurry 
ing  from  its  walls  to  escape  a  tumult  of  the  people. 
Assisted  by  his  groom,  he  hastily  mounts  his  horse,  his 
dress  disarranged,  and  the  spurs  but  half  fastened  to 
his  boots.  Forty  arquebusiers  take  aim  at  him  as  he 
passes  out  by  the  Pont  Neuf ;  and  when  he  finds  him 
self  free  from  the  perilous  neighborhood  of  the  city,  he 
indulges  in  wrathful  gestures  and  imprecations  of  ven 
geance  ;  like  the  vindictive  Marmion,  who,  on  quitting 
the  castle  of  the  haughty  Douglas, 

11  Turned  and  raised  his  clenched  hand, 
And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 
And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers." 

We  shrink,  as  we  imagine  gliding  among  these  scenes, 
the  form  of  the  ambitious  Catharine  de  Medicis,  who 
built  for  her  son's  residence  this  very  central  pavilion, 
with  its  wings.  There,  there  is  the  window  from 
whence  the  infamous  Charles  the  Ninth,  whom  his 
mother  "  Jezebel  stirred  up,"  fired  upon  his  own  peo- 


278  EVENTS    AT    THE    TUILERIES. 

pie,  on  the  terrible  August  24th,  1572;  and  while  the 
groans  of  the  Protestants  resounded  in  his  ears,  con 
tinued  to  excite  his  ruffian  soldiers,  with  the  hoarse  and 
horrible  cry  of  "  Kill  !  kill !  " 

At  the  summer  solstice,  two  hundred  and  twenty 
years  after  this  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  the  Tui- 
leries  again  reechoed  with  the  howling  of  an  infuriated 
mob,  and  the  shrieks  of  the  dying.  Throngs  of  labor 
ers,  and  the  terrible  women  from  the  faubourg  St.  An- 
toine,  with  the  brewer  Santerre  at  their  head,  swelling, 
as  they  passed  along,  to  twenty  thousand,  beat  down 
the  gates  of  the  palace,  hewed  their  way  through  the 
doors  with  hatchets,  trampled  through  the  royal  apart 
ments,  brandishing  their  cutlasses,  pikes,  and  knives, 
rifled  the  bureaus  in  the  bed-chambers,  and  alarmed 
the  unfortunate  Marie  Antoinette,  with  the  most  dis 
gusting  and  brutal  threats.  The  king,  Louis  the  Six 
teenth,  adventured  his  person  among  the  mob,  and  was 
miraculously  preserved,  after  enduring  great  rudeness 
and  indignity. 

On  the  10th  of  August,  of  this  same  memorable 
1791,  the  dreadful  immolation  of  the  Swiss  Guards 
deluged  the  grand  staircase,  the  council-chamber,  the 
chapel,  and  the  throne-room,  with  blood. 

Emerging  from  these  gates  on  the  19th  of  March, 
1815,  Louis  the  Eighteenth  appeared  at  midnight,  at 
tended  by  only  a  few  persons,  and  moving  feebly,  with 
sadness  depicted  on  his  countenance,  abdicated  his 
palace,  and  the  throne  of  his  ancestors.  Behind  him 
was  the  sound  of  the  banners  of  the  Corsican,  rush- 


RETURN    FROM    ELBA.  279 

ing  from  Elba,  and  the  scarce  suppressed  hosannas  of 
a  fickle  crowd.  In  a  few  hours  Bonaparte  entered  the 
Tuileries  in  triumph,  and  seated  himself  on  the  throne 
of  the  Bourbons,  losing  the  memory  of  his  exile  in  the 
enthusiastic  acclamations  of  "  Vive  1'Empereur,"  and 
the  reign  of  the  hundred  days. 


ADIEU  TO  FRANCE. 


ADIEU  to  sunny  France  !  I  call  it  so, 
Because  my  betters  have.     Yet  for  my  part 

I  have  been  all  but  perished  in  her  clime, 
Frost-stricken  to  the  bone,  and  to  the  heart ; 

The  Seine  in  one  night  turned  to  ice !     I  own 

I  'd  not  expected  this,  short  of  the  Arctic  zone. 

Wood  l>y  the  pound  !     'T  was  an  astonishment, 
Next  to  the  shock  of  water  sold  by  measure, 

Each  tiny  stem  and  stalk  so  strictly  weighed, 
Each  little  grape-vine  faggot  such  a  treasure ! 

Oh  !  for  the  coal  of  England,  glowing  bright, 

Or  even  my  slighted  friend,  the  homelier  anthracite. 

I  came  in  Autumn,  when  the  vines  had  shrunk 
From  prop  and  trellis ;  yet  the  verdant  trees 

Danced  to  the  gale  that  swept  the  Elysian  fields, 
And  rose  and  pansy  dared  the  chilling  breeze ; 

I  leave  in  Winter,  and  so  cannot  say, 

How  her  beau  del  may  smile  'neath  happier  sea 
sons'  sway. 


ADIEU    TO    FRANCE.  281 

Yet  is  her  courtesy  forever  bright, 

For  still  to  princely  halls  and  paintings  gay 

She,  with  glad  heart  and  liberal  hand,  doth  lead 
The  stranger  in,  and  cast  his  dole  away. 

Bidding  him  share,  unvexed  by  venal  guide, 

Wlmte'er    she    counts    most    rare,  of   elegance  or 
pride. 

Hence  have  I  roamed  at  will  her  haunts  of  taste, 
AY i tli in  her  glorious  Louvre  sate  me  down, 

Day  after  day,  —  or  when  the  spirit  moved, 

Lingered  mid  lettered  tomes,  nor  feared  a  frown, 

Or  sought  the  palace  domes,  which  crown  so  high 

The  city  of  her  boast,  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

Here  too,  I  found,  where  fashion  holds  her  court, 
With  wealth  and  grace  and  intellect  combin'd, 

A  form  of  beauty  thrilled  by  impulse  high, 
To  warm  and  sleepless  energy  of  mind, 

A  friend  to  cheer  me  on  my  stranger-way, 

Whom  grateful  Memory  loves,  but  never  can  re 
pay. 

Farewell,  enchanting  city,  which  doth  hold 
Both  eye  and  heart  in  strong  Circenn  sway, 

Bidding  the  buoyant  spirit  ne'er  grow  old, 

Though  wintry  years  may  turn  the  temples  gray, 

But  seek  for  pleasure,  till  the  funeral  bell 

Doth  summon  it  to  take  of  time  a  long  farewell. 


282  ADIEU    TO    FRANCE. 

Fair  France,  adieu  !  't  will  not  be  mine  again, 
Amid  the  allurements  of  thy  realm  to  tread, 

Yet  with  me  still,  across  the  Atlantic  main, 

Kind  thoughts  of  thee  shall  wend,  by  kindness 
bred, 

And  at  my  fireside  't  will  be  sweet  to  say, 

That  I  have  seen  thy  face  and  listened  to  thy  lay. 

For  many  a  charm  thou  hast,  the  heart  to  win, 
Blest  filial  love  luxuriates  in  thy  clime, 

Nor  doth  the  parent  by  such  solace  cheered, 
Tire  of  the  feast  of  life  before  his  time, 

Nor  even  the  grandsire  on  its  gladness  frown, 

And  to  the  gulf  of  years  unlovingly  go  down. 

Thou  hast  not  blotted  out  the  love  of  song 
For  love  of  money,  nor  enthusiasm  damped 

With  the  chill  dogma,  that  a  hoard  of  wealth 

Is  man's  chief  end  on  earth  ;  for  thou  art  stamped 

And  marked  with  chivalry  of  antique  mould, 

And  still  dost  genius  prize,  apart  from  gain  of  gold. 

I  do  remember  me,  that  thou  didst  lend 
Thy  hand  to  help  my  country  in  her  need, 

And  Lafayette  in  youthful  fervor  send 
"With  us  to  struggle  and  for  us  to  bleed  ; 

And  still  doth  glow  amid  our  annal  bright 

Thy   friendship  for  our  sires,  who  battled  for  the 
right. 


ADIEU    TO    FRANCE.  283 

Thou  hast  a  longing  for  the  things  that  tend 
Unto  thy  hurt,  and  lovest  all  too  well 

The  war-shout,  and  the  long  embattled  line, 

And  pomp  and  fame,  that  martial  triumphs  swell, 

Although  thy  life-blood  cast  its  crimson  stain, 

Profuse  o'er  Russia's  snows,  and  Egypt's  desert  plain. 

AVould  it  were  better  with  thee !     It  would  cheer 
Mr  in  my  home,  amid  my  household  care, 

To  think  that  all  was  prosperous  in  thy  clime, 
All  sound  at  heart,  that  to  the  eye  is  fajr  ; 

But  now  the  fresh  breeze  curls  the  ocean  blue, 

And  rocks   the  waiting  boat.     Delightful    France, 
adieu  ! 


To  the  kind  attentions  of  the  present  Marchioness  La 
Vallette,  a  native  of  New  England,  whose  house  was 
my  home  during  a  great  part  of  my  stay  in  Paris,  and 
whose  only  motive  for  such  hospitality  must  have  been 
the  generous  one  of  imparting  happiness  to  a  stranger, 
I  am  indebted  for  some  of  my  most  agreeable  impres 
sions  of  that  city,  and  of  its  inhabitants.  Courtesy 
and  deference  to  the  feelings  of  others,  throw  a  charm 
over  the  higher  grades  of  society,  and  in  some  measure 
modify  every  class  ;  and  if  fine  manners  do  not  exactly 
belong  to  the  family  of  the  virtues,  they  surely  help  to 
beautify  them.  Among  the  ancient  noblesse  was  one, 
the  Count  Roy,  whose  expressive  countenance  and 
unalloyed  delight  in  social  intercourse,  made  it  diffi- 


284  LAFAYETTE. 

cult  to  believe,  that  more  than  fourscore  years  had 
passed  over  him.  His  details  of  the  revolution  of 
1790,  of  the  secret  springs  that  produced  it,  and  of 
some  terrific  scenes  which  he  personally  witnessed,  and 
which,  by  a  deliberate  utterance,  he  politely  accommo 
dated  to  a  foreign  ear,  were  to  me  more  graphic  than 
the  pages  of  any  historian.  The  grace  with  which 
age  adapts  itself  to  a  new  generation,  and  the  affec 
tionate  manner  in  which  it  is  welcomed  among  them, 
are  delightful  traits  in  the  character  of  the  French 
people. 

Monsieur  George  Washington  Lafayette,  and  Ma 
dame  Laysterie,  the  surviving  children  of  the  Mar 
quis  Lafayette,  with  their  families  and  his  other 
descendants,  are  sought  with  interest  by  Americans, 
and  reciprocate  every  expression  of  such  regard  to 
their  illustrious  ancestor.  La  Grange  is  consecrated 
ground  to  those,  who,  in  the  words  of  one  of  our  most 
elegant  writers,  the  lamented  author  of  Hadad,  remem 
ber  the  deeds  of  the  chieftain,  who  "  came  to  us  during 
our  life-struggle  in  his  own  ship,  freighted  with  muni 
tions  of  war,  which  he  gratuitously  distributed  to  our 
army  ;  clothed  and  put  shoes  on  the  feet  of  the  naked, 
suffering  soldiers  ;  equipped  and  armed  a  regiment  at 
his  own  expense ;  received  no  pay,  but  expended  in 
our  service,  from  1777  to  1783,  the  sum  of  700,000 
francs ;  and  whose  name,  wherever  the  pulse  of  free 
dom  beats,  should  be  pronounced  with  benedictions." 

Literary  reputation,  as  well  as  scientific  attainment, 
are  highly  appreciated  in  Paris.  Intellect,  and  the 


LITKKATl   UK    AND     Till-:     KINK     ARTS.  285 

labors  of  intellect,  are  here  passports  to  that  temple  of 
honor,  which  in  most  other  countries  must  be  entered 
with  a  key  of  gold.  It  is  pleasing  to  see  with  what 
enthusiasm  Lnmnrtine  and  Arago  are  pointed  out  in 
their  scats,  amid  the  five  hundred  members  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies.  The  poet  De  la  Vigne,  not 
withstanding  his  retiring  modesty,  is  shown  exultingly 
to  strangers,  and  the  pen  of  Guizot  has  won  him  more 
admirers  than  his  political  fame.  It  was  gratifying  to 
perceive  that  our  talented  countryman,  Robert  Walsh, 
Esq.,  was  as  highly  and  truly  respected  in  the  capital 
of  France,  as  in  the  land  of  his  birth. 

One  of  the  most  imposing  audiences  that  I  remem 
ber  to  have  seen  while  there,  was  convened  in  the  pal 
ace  of  the  Institute,  formerly  the  Mazarine  College,  to 
witness  the  admission  of  a  new  member,  the  Count 
Mole,  into  the  Institute  of  France.  The  assembled 
academicians,  in  their  becoming  uniform,  listened  in 
tently  to  his  animated  inaugural  oration,  and  to  the 
reply  of  the  President  Dupin,  while,  from  their  niches 
in  the  spacious  hall,  the  marble  brows  of  Massillon, 
Fenelon,  and  Bossuet,  Sully,  Descartes,  and  others, 
looked  down  with  imperturbable  dignity. 

Taste  for  the  fine  arts  forms  an  integral  part  of  the 
character  of  the  French.  From  the  saloon  of  the  noble 
to  the  shop  of  the  petty  marchand  des  modes,  it  is 
seen  in  every  variety  of  adornment,  from  the  costly 
painting  or  chiselled  group  of  the  ancient  master,  to  the 
simple  vase  of  artificial  flowers  under  its  glass  shade, 
or  the  little  fancy -clock,  that  hastens  the  movements 


286  LOUVRE. BIBLIOTHEQUE    DU    HOI. 

of  the  needle.  The  very  street-beggar  feels  a  prop 
erty  and  a  pride  in  the  decorations  of  la  belle  Paris. 
To  rifle  a  plant,  or  wound  a  tree,  or  deface  a  statue 
in  the  public  squares  or  gardens,  is  held  by  the  rudest 
boy  an  indelible  disgrace.  Would  that  it  were  so 
everywhere  \ 

In  the  Louvre,  amid  that  astonishing  collection  of 
fifteen  hundred  arranged  pictures,  and  probably  as 
many  more,  for  which  the  walls  of  its  sumptuous  gal 
lery  have  no  space,  were  groups  of  artists,  of  both 
sexes,  diligently  employed  in  copying  ad  libitum.  The 
department  of  statuary,  notwithstanding  the  spoils  of 
Italy  have  been  abstracted  and  restored,  is  still  very 
extensive.  Our  party  often  found  themselves  attracted 
towards  a  lovely,  pensive  Polhyminia,  and  a  fine  infant 
Mercury,  and  imagined  among  the  effigies  of  the  Em 
perors  of  Rome  some  resemblance  to  their  real  char 
acter  ;  especially  in  the  philosophic  features  of  Marcus 
Aurelius,  the  thoughtful  brow  of  Antoninus  Pius,  and 
the  varied  lineaments  of  Trajan,  Severus,  and  Nerva, 
Domitian,  Nero,  and  Caracalla ;  though  a  youthful 
Commodus  in  his  gentleness  and  grace  displayed  none 
of  those  latent  evils  which  gave  the  sharpest  pang  to 
the  deathbed  of  his  father. 

Like  the  Louvre,  the  Bibliotheque  du  Hoi,  is  fitted 
up  with  every  accommodation  of  light,  warmth,  and 
silent  recess,  for  those  who  are  desirous  of  profiting 
by  its  immense  accumulation  of  nine  hundred  thousand 
volumes,  and  eighty  thousand  manuscripts.  The 
books  are  in  cases,  protected  by  wire  grating,  and 


CHURCHES.  —  PANTHEON.          287 

librarians  are  always  in  attendance,  to  reach  such  as 
are  desired.  Tables,  with  inkstands,  are  in  readiness 
for  those  who  desire  to  make  extracts,  and  no  conver 
sation  is  allowed  to  disturb  such  as  may  be  engaged  in 
profound  researches.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  so  many 
of  my  own  sex  seated  silently  at  these  tables,  and  ab 
sorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge. 

The  magnificence  of  the  churches  in  Paris,  and 
the  multitude  of  their  paintings,  statues,  and  bas- 
relievos,  are  noticed  by  all.  At  Notre  Dame  and 
St.  Roch,  we  saw  the  pompous  service  of  the  Ro 
mish  ritual,  and  the  appearance  of  deep  devotion 
among  the  worshippers,  especially  those  whose  garb 
announced  great  poverty.  But  without  the  doors, 
and  in  all  the  streets,  went  on  the  accustomed  move 
ments  of  toil  and  of  pleasure,  —  building  houses,  dig 
ging  trenches,  trallic  of  market-people  and  trades 
men,  review  of  troops,  rush  of  throngs  intent  on 
amusement,  as  if  the  Almighty  had  not  from  the  begin 
ning,  set  apart  for  himself  a  day  of  sacred  rest.  To 
one  inured  to  the  quietness  and  hallowed  observance  of 
a  N<_\\  England  Sabbath,  this  desecration  is  peculiar!  y 
painful. 

The  pulpit  eloquence  of  France  is  with  much  more 
gesticulation  than  in  England,  or  our  own  country. 
Indeed,  the  vehement  style  marks  most  of  the  public 
speaking  that  we  heard  there  ;  at  the  Bourse,  where 
the  merchants  negotiate  sales  of  stock,  and  transact 
other  business  at  the  very  top  of  their  voices  ;  in  the 


288  ST.    DENIS. 

tribunals,  where  the  advocates  plead  with  their  whole 
bodily  force ;  and  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  where 
the  exciting  question  of  war  with  England  was  one 
morning  discussed  with  such  violence,  as  to  excite  my 
apprehensions  that  it  might  end  in  actual  combat. 

The  Pantheon,  formerly  the  Church  of  St.  Genevieve, 
is  a  splendid  structure,  and  its  dome,  being  the  most 
elevated  one  in  Paris,  affords  an  extensive  prospect. 
Here  are  the  bones  of  Voltaire  and  Rousseau ;  here, 
also,  Mirabeau  was  laid  with  great  pomp,  in  the  spring 
of  1791,  while  the  horrors  of  that  revolution  were 
deepening,  which  he  had  done  so  much  to  precipitate. 
Beneath  its  pavement  is  a  vast  series  of  vaults,  with 
roofs  supported  by  Tuscan  columns,  and  containing 
funeral  urns,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Roman  tombs  at 
Pompeii.  While  following  the  dim  lamp  of  our  guide, 
we  traversed  this  subterranean  city  of  the  dead,  we 
were  startled  at  a  loud  echo,  which  by  the  construc 
tion  of  two  circular  passages  in  the  centre  of  the 
vaulted  area,  gives  singular  force  and  perpetuity  to  the 
slightest  sound. 

The  exterior  of  the  Church  of  St.  Denis,  though 
less  elaborate  than  many  others,  is  striking  and  suffi 
ciently  ornate.  The  inhumed  ashes  of  the  .monarchs 
of  France,  from  Clovis  to  Louis  the  Eighteenth,  give 
interest  to  the  spot,  and  a  lesson  to  human  pride. 
During  the  madness  of  the  revolution,  their  repose 
was  violated,  but  the  broken  sepulchres  and  scattered 
relics  were  again  gathered  and  reunited.  Many  of  the 


VERSAILLES.  289 

monuments  are  exceedingly  costly,  and  some  of  their 
recumbent  statues,  by  a  strange  perversion  of  taste, 
depict  the  distortions  and  agonies  of  death  with  fearful 
accuracy. 

At  the  Porte  St.  Denis,  is  the  celebrated  triumphal 
arch,  erected  to  commemorate  the  victories  of  Louis 
the  Fourteenth.  Its  proportions  and  sculpture  are 
much  admired,  and  surmounting  the  arch  in  bas 
relief,  is  the  king  on  horseback,  represented  as  cross 
ing  the  Rhine,  with  only  the  inscription,  "  Ludovico 
May  no"  But  in  no  spot  are  his  ambition  and  lavish 
expenditure  so  conspicuous  as  in  the  palace  of  Ver 
sailles,  which  cannot  be  explored  without  remember 
ing  its  mournful  influence  on  the  fates  of  France,  at 
the  birth  of  the  Revolution.  A  double  line  of  colossal 
statues  of  the  great  of  other  days,  receive  the  visitant 
at  the  gates.  The  paintings,  the  tapestry,  the  statues, 
the  fountains,  it  would  require  volumes  to  describe. 
Gallery  after  gallery  astonishes  the  sight.  Here  Ludo 
vico  Magno,  as  he  was  fond  of  being  styled,  is  multi 
plied  by  the  pencil  in  the  most  imposing  forms  of 
martial  and  regal  state.  The  departments  allotted  to 
Napoleon  are  still  blazing  with  the  portraiture  of  his 
battles,  and  the  trophies  of  his  renown.  Yet  in  such  a 
place,  even  more,  it  would  seem,  than  amid  the  tombs, 
the  mind  is  led  to  reflect  on  the  vanity  of  mortal  glory. 
Descending  a  hundred  marble  steps,  we  visited  the 
immense  orangery,  where,  amid  throngs  of  fine  orange 
trees,  we  were  shown  one  said  to  be  three  hundred  and 
another  four  hundred  years  old,  still  vigorous  and  in 
19 


290  GRAND    AND    PETIT    TRIANON. 

healthful  bearing.  At  our  departure,  surfeited  with 
splendor,  from  this  great  Babylon,  created  for  the 
pride  and  praise  of  men  who  are  now  but  dust,  we  were 
beset  at  the  gates  by  the  saddest  and  lowest  forms  of 
mendicity,  who  in  piteous  accents  supplicated  for  a 
single  sous. 

The  two  small  palaces  of  Grand  and  Petit  Trianon 
are  within  the  gardens  of  Versailles.  The  first  was 
erected  by  the  Grand  Monarque  for  Madame  de  Main- 
tenon,  and  we  saw  there  the  sedan-chair,  rich  with 
gilding  and  velvet,  in  which  she  used  to  be  borne 
around  the  magnificent  grounds.  Among  the  pictures 
was  one  commemorating  our  national  era  of  the  "  Sur 
render  at  York  town,"  in  which  Washington,  in  an 
antiquated  uniform,  makes  rather  a  quaint  appearance. 
Every  apartment  in  this  beautiful  palace,  especially 
the  working  rooms  of  the  present  queen  and  the  sister 
of  Louis  Philippe,  display  consummate  taste  in  the 
arrangement  arid  adaptation  to  each  other  of  the  hang 
ings,  sofas,  chairs,  mirrors,  and  different  articles  of 
furniture. 

Le  Petit  Trianon,  was  built  by  Louis  the  Fifteenth 
for  Madame  Dubarri,  and  here  he  was  smitten  with 
his  fatal  sickness.  Afterwards  it  was  given  by 
Louis  the  Sixteenth  to  Marie  Antoinette,  who  beauti 
fied  its  grounds  by  her  taste,  and  erected  among  them 
the  imitation  of  a  little  Swiss  village.  It  is  surrounded 
by  many  fine  trees,  of  which  some  are  American. 
Here  Louis  the  Fifteenth  was  called  to  render  up  his 
breath,  and  here  the  son  of  Napoleon  was  born. 


SEVERITY    OF    WINTER.  291 

Among  the  tasteful  article*  exhibited,  is  a  bed  draped 
with  muslin,  embroidered  in  gold,  which  formerly  be 
longed  to  Maria  Louisa.  Both  these  fine  structures 
have  some  exquisite  pictures. 

AV«  were  persevering  in  visiting  the  palaces  of  Paris 
and  its  environs,  with  other  objects  and  institutions  of 
interest,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of  the  winter. 
Having  heard  so  much  of  the  fine  climate  of  France, 
we  were  surprised  at  being  sometimes  enveloped  in 
those  dense,  yellow  fogs,  which  we  flattered  ourselves 
had  been  left  behind  in  London.  Snow  frequently 
descended,  and  lay  thickly  upon  the  roofs  for  several 
weeks,  the  horses,  not  properly  shod,  fell  upon  the 
slippery  pavements,  and  received  no  mercy  from  their 
drivers  ;  and  the  sufferings  of  the  improvident  poor 
were  terrible.  The  inhabitants  asserted  that  a  season 
of  such  intense  and  protracted  cold  had  not  been  expe 
rienced  for  many  years.  The  Seine  froze  quite  over 
in  December,  on  the  night  after  the  ceremony  of  the 
reception  of  Bonaparte's  remains.  It  was  feared  that 
the  period  of  that  grand  pageant  might  be  chosen  for 
some  popular  tumult ;  as  symptoms  of  disaffection 
towards  the  government,  especially  of  exasperation 
against  the  English,  had  for  some  time  been  revealing 
themselves.  During  the  day  the  Marsellois  Hymn,  the 
ancient  signal  of  outbreak,  had  been  heard  hoarsely 
uplifted,  with  here  and  there  cries,  among  the  crowd, 
of  "  a  bas  les  traitres"  Some  of  us,  nurtured  in  a 
peaceful  land,  were  considerably  alarmed,  not  so  much 


292  LAUDABLE    ECONOMY. 

for  our  own  personal  safety,  as  lest  our  eyes  should 
be  shocked  by  sights  of  conflict  and  bloodshed.  But 
the  extreme  cold,  benumbing  nerve  and  muscle,  and 
checking  all  effervescence  of  animal  spirits,  probably 
operated  as  a  protection  to  the  peace  of  the  city  ; 
on  the  same  principle  that  Marshal  Soult  once  quelled 
the  beginning  of  a  formidable  insurrection  by  caus 
ing  the  engines  to  play  plentifully  upon  the  mal 
contents.  Would  that  all  distinguished  commanders 
were  equally  ingenious  and  merciful  in  substituting 
water  for  blood. 

Among  the  slighter  traits  of  French  character,  we 
could  not  but  notice  that  variety  and  fruitfulness  of 
resource,  by  which  a  little  was  made  sufficient  for  the 
necessities  of  life ;  and  the  respect  which  was  shown  to 
a  just  economy.  No  false  shame  was  evinced  at  the 
confession,  "  I  should  like  such  a  thing,  but  cannot 
afford  it ; "  and  a  moderate  expenditure  seemed  not 
only  consistent  with  entire  contentment,  but  was  count 
ed  more  reputable  than  the  appearance  of  wealth  with 
out  its  reality. 

Another  still  more  delightful  trait  is  the  sweet  and 
affectionate  deportment  of  children  to  their  parents. 
This  is  discoverable  among  all  ranks.  It  reveals  itself 
in  the  zealous  attentions  and  offices  which  a  younger 
hand  can  so  gracefully  extend  to  those  who  are  wearied 
with  the  cares  of  life,  as  well  as  in  the  marked  and  ten 
der  attentions,  too  often  omitted  by  those  whose  filial 
virtues  would  be  called  into  vigorous  action  by  any 


FILIAL    AFFECTION.  293 

emergency.  Surely  this  is  an  affection  which  should 
beautify  the  intercourse  of  every  day,  yet  continually 
humble  itself  for  its  inadequacy  to  repay  the  vast 
debt  to  parental  love,  that  best  earthly  symbol  of  the 
Love  Divine,  in  which  we  "  live,  and  move,  and  have 
our  being." 


OPENING  OF  PARLIAMENT  BY  VICTORIA. 


IT  was  on  the  morning  of  January  25th,  1841,  that 
we  went  forth  to  witness  the  ceremony  of  convoking 
the  Parliament  of  England.  Through  the  influence  of 
friends,  I  was  favored  with  a  seat  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  where  the  interval  of  waiting  could  be  employed 
in  observing  the  peers  and  peeresses,  and  the  foreign 
ambassadors,  in  their  varied  costumes.  Conspicuous, 
by  his  lofty  form  and  dignified  bearing,  was  the  old 
Duke  of  Cambridge,  who  exhibits  a  striking  resem 
blance  to  his  father,  George  the  Third. 

At  ten  minutes  past  two,  the  thunder  of  cannon,  the 
flourish  of  trumpets,  and  shouts  of  the  people,  an 
nounced  the  approach  of  the  procession.  Eight  noble 
cream-colored  horses,  who  never  appear  but  on  the 
greatest  occasions,  drew  the  massy  state  coach,  so  cov 
ered  with  colossal,  emblematic  figures,  that  it  is  said  to 
weigh  four  tons.  It  was  a  moment  of  enthusiasm  when 
the  young  queen  entered.  She  wore  a  dress  of  white 
satin  and  lace,  superbly  decorated  with  diamonds ; 
a  robe,  or  mantle  of  crimson  velvet,  with  a  train  ;  and 
on  her  head  glittered  the  crown  of  the  kingdom.  She 


ACCOMIM.ISIIMF.XT    OF    READINC.  295 

took  her  place  on  the  throne,  Prince  Albert  at  her 
left  hand,  on  a  lower  seat,  as  the  etiquette  of  the  realm 
requires  ;  the  Lord  Chancellor  standing  near,  and  Lord 
Melbourne  bearing  before  her  the  sword  of  state. 

The  complexion  of  Victoria  is  exceedingly  fair,  but 
her  countenance  has  no  decided  intellectual  expression. 
It  seemed  remarkable  that  so  young  a  creature  should 
evince  such  entire  ease  and  self-possession,  nor  even 
betray  the  slightest  consiousness  that  every  eye  in  that 
vast  assembly  was  fixed  solely  on  her.  This,  however, 
is  a  part  of  the  queenly  training,  in  which  she  has  be 
come  perfect. 

After  a  brief  pause,  a  tone,  combining  sweetness 
with  command,  escaped  those  ruby  lips.  The  gentle 
man  of  the  Black  Rod,  was  commissioned  to  "  summon 
my  House  of  Commons."  That  whole  body,  led  by 
their  Speaker,  with  a  lion-like  air,  presented  them 
selves  at  the  door  or  bar,  their  accustomed  limit,  to 
hear  the  speech  of  her  Majesty.  This  she  pronounced 
in  a  voice  of  such  clearness  and  melody,  and  with  so 
correct  an  enunciation,  that  every  word  of  her  speech 
was  distinctly  audible  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the 
House  of  Lords.  She  possesses  in  an  eminent  degree 
the  accomplishment  of  fine  reading.  I  could  not  help 
wishing  that  the  fair  daughters  of  my  own  land,  who 
wear  no  crown  save  that  of  loveliness  and  virtue, 
would  more  fully  estimate  the  worth  of  this  accom 
plishment,  and  more  faithfully  endeavor  to  acquire  it. 
For  I  remembered  how  often,  in  our  seminaries  of  edu 
cation,  I  had  listened  almost  breathlessly  to  sentiments, 


296  TEARS    AT    BECOMING    A    QUEEN. 

which  I  knew,  from  the  lips  that  uttered  them,  must 
be  true  and  beautiful ;  but  only  stifled  sounds,  or  a  few 
uncertain  murmurings  repaid  the  toil.  And  I  wish  all 
who  conduct  the  education  of  young  ladies  would 'insist 
on  at  least  an  audible  utterance,  and  not  consider  their 
own  office  to  be  faithfully  filled,  unless  a  correct  and 
graceful  elocution  is  attained. 

When  Victoria  had  finished  her  speech,  she  reached 
the  manuscript  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  that  grave 
dignitary  reverently  knelt  to  take  it  from  her  hand. 
Then  she  passed  out,  as  she  entered,  with  the  same 
demonstrations  of  affection  from  her  people.  It  was  a 
thought  both  touching  and  elevating,  that  amid  the 
change  and  revolution  which  have  overturned  many 
thrones,  one  should  for  hundreds  of  years  have  re 
mained  in  stability,  and  a  delicate  woman  be  so  guard 
ed  by  the  chivalry  of  a  once  rude  nation,  as  to  bear  its 
sceptre  safely  and  peacefully. 

In  looking  upon  her  to  whom  such  power  is  de 
puted,  and  hoping  that  she  might  be  enabled  to  execute 
the  sacred  and  fearful  trust,  for  the  good  of  the  mil 
lions  who  own  her  sway,  and  for  her  own  soul's  salva 
tion,  I  was  reminded  of  the  circumstance  of  her  weep 
ing  when  told  she  was  to  become  a  queen,  and  of  the 
sweet  poem  of  Miss  Barret,  now  Mrs.  Browning,  which 
commemorates  that  circumstance. 

It  was  a  scene  of  pomp. 

The  ancient  hall 
Where  Britain's  highest  in  their  wisdom  meet, 


VICTORIA.  297 

Showed  proud  array  of  noble  and  of  peer, 

Prelate  and  judge,  each  in  his  fitting  robes 

Of  rank  and  power.     And  beauty  lent  its  charms  ; 

For  with  plumed  brows,  the  island  peeresses 

Bore  themselves  nobly.    Distant  realms  were  there 

In  embassy,  from  the  far  jewelled  East, 

To  that  which  stretcheth  toward  the  setting  sun,  — 

My  own  young  native  land. 

Long  was  the  pause 

Of  expectation.     Then  the  cannon  spake, 
The  trumpets  flourished  bravely,  and  the  throne 
Of  old  Plantagenet,  that  stood  so  firm, 
While  years  and  blasts  and  earthquake-shocks  dis 
solved 

The  linked  dynasty  of  many  climes, 
Took  in  its  golden  arms  a  fair  young  form,  — 
The  Lady  of  the  kingdoms.     "With  clear  eye 
And  queenly  grace,  gentle  and  self-possessed, 
She  met  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  earnest  throng, 
Scanning  her  close.     And  I  remembered  well 
How  it  was  said  that  tears  o'erflowed  her  cheek, 
When  summoned  first  for  cares  of  state  to  yield 
Her  girlhood's  joys. 

In  her  fair  hand  she  held 
A  scroll,  and  with  a  clear  and  silver  tone 
Wondrous  in  melody,  descanted  free 
Of  foreign  climes,  where  Albion's  ships  had  borne 
Their  thunders,  and  of  those  who  dwelt  at  peace 
In  prosperous  commerce,  and  of  some  who  frowned 
In  latent  anger,  murmuring  notes  of  war, 


298  VICTORIA. 

Until  the  British  Lion  cleared  his  brow 
To  mediate  between  them,  with  a  branch 
Of  olive  in  his  paw. 

'T  was  strange  to  me 

To  hear  so  young  a  creature  speak  so  well 
And  eloquent,  of  nations  and  their  rights, 
Their  equal  balance  and  their  policies, 
"Which  we,  in  our  republic,  think  that  none 
Can  comprehend  but  grave  and  bearded  men. 
Her  words  went  wandering  wide  o'er  all  the  earth, 
For  so  her  sphere  required.     But  there  was  still 
Something  she  said  not,  though  the  closest  twined 
With  her  heart's  inmost  core.     Yes,  there  was  one, 
One  little  word  imbedded  in  her  soul, 
Which  yet  she  uttered  not.     Fruitful  in  change, 
Had  been  the  fleeting  year.     When  last  she  stood 
In  tfris  august  assembly  to  convoke 
The  power  of  parliament,  the  crown  adorned 
A  maiden  brow  ;  but  now  that  vow  had  passed, 
Which  Death  alone  can  break,  and  a  new  soul 
Come  forth  to  witness  it.     And  by  the  seed 
Of  those  most  strong  affections,  dropped  by  Heaven 
In  a  rich  soil,  I  knew  there  was  a  germ 
That  fain  would  have  disclosed  itself  in  sound 
If  unsupprest.     Through  her  transparent  brow 
I  could  discern  that  word  close  wrapped  in  love, 
And  dearer  than  all  earthly  pageantry. 
Thy  babe,  young  Mother  !  thy  fair  first-born  babe  ! 
That  was  the  word .' 


VICTORIA.  299 

And  yet  she  spoke  it  not ; 
But  rose,  and,  leaning  on  her  consort's  arm, 
Passed  forth.     And  as  the  gorgeous  car  of  state, 
By  noble  coursers  borne  exultingly, 
Drew  near,  the  people's  acclamations  rose 
Loud,  and  reechoed  widely  to  the  sky. 
Long  may  their  loyalty  and  love  be  thine, 
Daughter  of  many  kings,  and  thou  the  rights 
Of  peasant  as  of  prince  maintain,  and  heed 
The  cry  of  lowly  poverty,  as  one 
Who  must  account  to  God. 

So  unto  Him,    • 

From  many  a  quiet  fireside  of  thy  realm 
At  the  still  hour  of  prayer,  thy  name  shall  rise, 
Blent  with  that  name  which  thou  didst  leave  unsaid  ; 
And  blessings,  which  shall  last,  when  sceptres  fall, 
And  crowns  are  dust,  be  tenderly  invoked 
On  the  young  sovereign  and  her  cradled  child. 


MRS.  FRY  AT  NEWGATE  PRISON. 


BOLTS  and  bars,  and  the  creaking  of  sullen  hinges, 
and  the  clang  of  massy  doors,  and  the  meagre  aspect 
of  narrow,  grated  windows,  how  repulsive  !  how  the 
veins  chill  at  passing  these  dreary  thresholds !  —  and 
yet  what  mighty  pains  have  we  taken  to  arrive  at  this 
prison-house,  and  to  gain  admittance  to  its  precincts. 
Riding  through  one  of  the  most  terribly  dense  London 
fogs,  swallowing  its  mephitic  atmosphere,  saturated  with 
coal  in  sickening  mouthfuls,  to  our  present  annoyance 
as  well  as  future  peril  plunging  into  black,  glutinous 
mire,  and  all  for  what  ?  To  be  let  in  where  multitudes 
are  longing  to  be  let  out,  —  where,  for  so  many  years 
such  masses  of  human  crime  and  misery  have  tossed, 
and  fermented,  and  been  cast  forth  to  banishment  and 
to  death. 

Well,  here  we  are,  indeed,  at  Newgate,  seated  in  the 
midst  of  a  throng  of  female  convicts.  How  rude  and 
hardened  is  the  aspect  of  many  of  them,  —  what  savage 
and  hateful  glances  do  they  bend  on  the  unfallen. 
Here,  too,  are  young  faces,  with  curious,  searching 
eyes,  taking  note  of  every  ornament  of  dress,  others 


PERSONAL  APPEARANCE  OF  MRS.  FRY.    301 

turned  away  with  a  mixture  of  shame,  others  express 
ing  only  stupid  indifference.  Oh,  children  !  had  ye  no 
mothers  to  warn  you  of  this  ? 

I  am  told  that,  in  some  cases,  their  mistresses,  for 
the  theft  of  a  slight  article  of  dress,  have  given  them 
up  to  such  ignominy.  It  was  painful  to  look  upon  the 
sin  and  sorrow  thus  exhibited  by  my  own  sex.  "  Who 
maketh  thee  to  differ  ?  "  was  never  before  so  forcibly 
impressed,  or  with  such  a  humbling  consciousness  of 
innate  infirmity. 

The  brief  pause  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  a 
lady  of  commanding  height,  and  of  plain  garb  and 
countenance.  Every  eye  was  fixed  on  her,  and  the 
dignity  of  her  calm  benevolence  seemed  to  be  felt  by 
all.  There  was  about  her  the  quietude  of  a  soul  con 
versant  with  high  duties,  and  not  to  be  satisfied  with 
so  poor  an  aliment  as  the  applause  of  man. 

This  was  Mrs.  Fry.  With  a  peculiar  melody  of 
voice,  and  that  slow  intonation  which  usually  distin 
guishes  the  sect  to  which  she  belongs,  she  read  from 
the  Bible,  and  after  a  few  simple  remarks  and  touching 
admonitions,  knelt  in  prayer.  But  neither  in  her  com 
ments,  nor  in  the  solemn  exercise  of  devotion  was  there 
a  single  allusion  which  could  harrow  up  the  feelings 
of  the  unfortunate  beings  who  surrounded  her.  Over 
the  past  a  veil  was  drawn.  It  was  to  the  future  that 
she  urged  them  to  look,  with  "  newness  of  life."  She 
came  with  all  gentleness  of  speech,  as  to  the  "  lost 
sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel."  She  spoke  of  the  infinite 
compassion  of  the  Redeemer,  —  of  the  joy  that  there 


302  EFFECTS    OF    THE    ADDRESS. 

was  among  angels,  when  one  sinner  repenteth  ;  till  those 
who,  despairing,  had  said,  "  no  man  careth  for  my 
soul,"  laid  aside  the  defiance  of  guilt,  and  seemed  ready 
to  become  as  little  children. 

More  than  usual  feeling  was  pressed  into  this  inter 
view.  It  was  a  parting  scene.  The  class  of  convicts, 
whom  she  now  addressed,  were  the  next  week  to  be 
transported  to  Botany  Bay.  "With  increasing  earnest 
ness  she  recapitulated  the  instructions  given  during 
their  previous  intercourse,  which  must  now  never 
more  be  renewed.  She  exhorted  them  to  an  exem 
plary  deportment  during  the  long  voyage  that  was 
before  them  ;  to  convince  all  with  whom  they  should 
in  future  associate,  that  their  teaching  had  not  been  in 
vain ;  to  bear  with  patience  the  evils,  and  discharge 
with  fidelity  their  duties,  in  a  foreign  land  ;  fortify 
ing  their  good  resolutions  by  every  hope  drawn  from 
this  life  and  the  next.  Surely  the  spirit  of  that 
Master  was  with  her,  who  wrote  with  his  finger  upon 
the  ground,  effacing  the  accuser's  threat,  and  sparing 
to  condemn  the  sinful  soul,  abashed  at  its  own  guilt. 
Nor  were  her  appeals  in  vain.  Sobs  and  moans,  on 
every  side,  attested  that  hardened  natures  were  becom 
ing  as  wax  before  the  flame.  The  stony-hearted  and 
the  fiery-eyed,  seemed  ready  to  change,  like  Niobe, 
into  a  fountain  of  tears.  A  stronger  contrast  could 
scarcely  be  imagined,  than  the  appearance  of  the  audi 
ence  at  her  entrance  and  her  departure.  May  the 
hallowed  counsels  of  their  benefactress  go  with  them 
over  the  far  waters,  and  be  to  them,  in  the  land  of 


MRS.    FRY'S    FIRST    VISIT.  303 

their  banishment,  as  a  voice  turning  many  to  right 
eousness. 

After  our  departure  from  this  scene,  and  during  a 
drive  in  her  own  carriage,  Mrs.  Fry  inquired  of  me 
much  respecting  American  prisons,  and  expressed 
great  interest  in  the  results  of  those  systems  of  disci 
pline  among  us,  which  have  in  view  the  reformation  of 
the  offender.  A  young  lady,  who  seemed  to  be  an 
active  assistant  in  her  plan  of  benevolence,  presented 
me,  at  Newgate,  with  a  book  detailing  the  progress 
of  these  efforts  in  behalf  of  female  prisoners.  It 
seems  that  the  first  visit  of  Mrs.  Fry  to  Newgate  was 
in  1813,  and  that  she  then  found,  in  an  area  of  less  than 
two  hundred  square  yards,  three  hundred  incarcerated 
females.  Such  were  their  ferocious  manners  and  aban 
doned  conduct,  that  it  was  not  thought  safe  to  go  in 
among  them.  The  governor,  perceiving  that  she  had 
determined  to  venture,  deemed  it  expedient  to  request 
that  she  would  leave  her  watch  behind  her,  acknowl 
edging  that  even  his  presence  might  be  insufficient  to 
prevent  its  being  violently  torn  from  her.  Almost 
every  discouragement  seemed  to  oppose  the  outset  of 
the  benevolent  effort  of  Mrs.  Fry.  It  was  felt  neces 
sary  to  have  a  guard  of  soldiers  in  the  prison  to  prevent 
outrage  ;  order  and  discipline  were  utterly  set  at  defi 
ance.  But  her  presence,  and  the  kind  interest  she 
manifested  in  them,  made  a  great  impression.  At  her 
second  visit,  she  was,  by  her  own  desire,  admitted  into 
the  wards,  unaccompanied  by  any  turnkey.  She  then 
proposed  to  them  a  school  for  the  children  and  younger 


304  SCHOOL    AMONG    THE    CONVICTS. 

prisoners.  This  was  accepted,  even  by  the  most  hard 
ened,  with  gratitude  and  tears  of  joy.  A  separate  cell 
was  procured,  and  the  school  prosperously  established. 
Soon  the  older  prisoners  came  with  entreaties  to  be 
taught  and  employed.  A  matron  was  obtained  to  re 
main  day  and  night  in  the  prison,  and  the  ordinary, 
governor,  and  sheriffs,  though  they  had  no  confidence 
in  the  success  of  the  experiment,  manifested  every 
favorable  disposition  towards  it,  and  lent  it  all  the  aid 
in  their  power.  At  the  next  meeting,  the  comforts  to 
be  derived  from  industry,  and  sobriety,  were  dwelt 
upon ;  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  doing  right,  and  ob 
taining  knowledge ;  and  the  happiness  of  a  life  devoted 
to  virtue  and  piety.  The  prisoners  were  assured  that 
no  regulation  would  be  established  among  them  with 
out  their  entire  concurrence,  and  that  neither  Mrs. 
Fry,  nor  the  ladies  with  whom  she  consulted,  and  who 
formed  a  committee,  assumed  any  authority  over  them, 
except  by  their  own  consent.  Some  rules  were  then 
proposed,  and  it  was  gratifying  to  see  every  hand  held 
up  in  unqualified  approval.  A  chapter  in  the  Bible  was 
read  to  them,  and  after  a  period  of  silent  meditation, 
the  monitors,  who  had  been  appointed,  withdrew  with 
their  respective  classes  to  the  cells,  in  the  most  orderly 
manner. 

The  first  steps  toward  taming  the  lion  had  suc 
ceeded  beyond  all  expectation.  Guilt  had  listened, 
and  admitted  the  superiority  of  virtue,  and  been  con 
vinced  that  it  was  itself  an  object  neither  of  indiffer 
ence  nor  of  hatred.  .  It  had  seen  those,  who  were  "  rich 


IMPROVEMENT.  305 

and  increased  in  goods,"  condescending  to  "  light  a 
candle,  and  sweep  the  house,  and  seek  diligently  for 
the  piece  that  was  lost."  It  wondered,  and  was  sub 
dued. 

A  great  change  in  the  habits  of  the  prisoners  was 
obvious  to  all  who  approached  them.  It  had  been  the 
practice  of  those  who  were  sentenced  to  transporta 
tion,  on  the  night  before  their  departure,  to  pull  down 
and  break  every  thing  within  their  reach,  —  to  destroy 
their  seats  and  fireplaces,  and  go  off  shouting  with  the 
most  shameless  effrontery.  Now,  to  the  surprise  of 
the  oldest  turnkeys,  and  other  officers  and  inmates  of 
the  prison,  no  noise  was  heard,  no  injury  done,  not  a 
window  broken.  The  departing  ones  took  an  affection 
ate  leave  of  their  companions,  expressed  gratitude  to 
their  benefactress  and  her  coadjutors,  and  entered  the 
conveyances  that  had  been  provided  for  them,  in  the 
most  quiet  and  orderly  manner. 

Mrs.  Fry,  and  the  benevolent  ladies  associated  with 
her,  visit  the  convict-ships  while  they  remain  in  the 
river,  and  kindly  present  the  inmates  such  articles  as 
may  conduce  to  their  comfort ;  giving  to  each  one  a  bag 
for  holding  her  clothes,  another  for  her  work,  another 
containing  a  small  supply  of  haberdashery,  materials 
for  knitting  and  for  patchwork,  combs,  scissors,  and 
thimbles,  spectacles  to  such  as  need  them,  useful  books, 
religious  tracts,  and  a  copy  of  the  New  Testament, 
with  the  Psalms  appended.  Rules  for  their  observ 
ance  during  the  voyage  are  read  to  them,  and  while 
they  are  assembled  to  receive  their  gifts,  kind  words 
20 


306      CONDUCT  AFTER  TRANSPORTATION. 

of  admonition  are  addressed  to  them,  mingled  with  pas 
sages  from  the  Scriptures.  Compressed  in  the  narrow 
space  which  for  four  or  five  months  is  to  be  their  home, 
and  about  to  become  exiles  from  their  native  land, 
they  often  pour  forth  the  most  fervent  feelings  to  those 
who  sought  them  out  in  their  low  estate,  and  followed 
them  to  the  last  moment  with  offices  of  mercy,  in  the 
name  of  a  common  Saviour. 

Most  gratifying  was  it  to  the  persevering  originator 
of  this  effort,  to  find  that  its  good  results  were  not  con 
fined  to  the  walls  of  the  prison.  Superintendents  and 
physicians,  on  board  the  convict-ships,  gave  testimony 
to  the  marked  improvement  in  the  behavior  of  the  wo 
men  from  Newgate.  On  their  arrival  at  the  place  of 
their  destination,  the  lady  of  the  governor,  who  had 
several  of  them  in  her  family  as  servants,  asserted  that 
"  their  conduct  was  so  uniformly  correct  as  to  merit 
her  approbation  ;  a  circumstance  so  uncommon  that 
she  felt  it  her  duty  to  acquaint  Mrs.  Fry  with  the 
happy  change." 

One,  who  had  been  four  years  in  the  penal  colony  at 
New  South  Wales,  writes,  "  It  was  inside  of  the  walls 
of  Newgate  that  the  rays  of  divine  truth  shone  into  my 
dark  mind,  and  may  the  Holy  Spirit  shine  more  and 
more  into  my  understanding,  that  I  may  be  enabled  so 
to  walk  as  one  whose  heart  is  set  to  seek  a  city  whose 
builder  and  maker  is  God.  I  hope  the  world  will  see 
that  your  labor  in  Newgate  has  not  been  in  vain  in  the 
Lord." 


INSTANCES  OF  PENITENCE.          307 

Another  who  had  occasionally  been  employed  as  a 
teacher  among  her  fellow-prisoners,  writes  to  Mrs.  Fry, 
"  I  sincerely  wish  to  forsake  evil  and  to  do  good.  God 
is  merciful  to  those  who  seek  him  by  penitence  and 
prayer.  It  is  my  determination,  with  his  assistance,  to 
begin  a  new  life."  Afterwards,  in  her  last  sickness, 
she  said  she  was  cheered  by  the  "  hope  of  living  hap 
pily  in  a  better  world,"  and  tHat  her  sorrowful  impris 
onment  had  proved  a  real  blessing. 

Another  liberated  prisoner  encloses  to  Mrs.  Fry  two 
pounds,  saved  from  her  wages  as  a  servant,  which  she 
begs  her  to  accept,  "  and  add  to  the  subscription  for 
defraying  the  expenses  of  her  most  benevolent  exer 
tions  for  the  reform  and  instruction  of  those  unhappy 
persons,  confined  within  that  dreary  receptacle  of  woe, 
. —  the  walls  of  Newgate." 

What  was  commenced  so  prosperously  at  Newgate, 
has  been  extended  to  other  prisons  in  Great  Britain, 
and  with  some  degree  of  the  same  success.  Many  have 
been  taught  both  to  read  and  to  work  neatly,  and  thus, 
after  their  liberation,  have  found  themselves  better 
qualified  to  earn  an  honest  livelihood.  Some  have 
been  received  as  servants,  and  maintained  an  exem 
plary  conduct  for  years,  and  even  remained  with  their 
employers  as  long  as  they  lived. 

Of  others  it  was  said,  that  their  dutiful  and  industri 
ous  course  had  been  a  comfort  to  parents  and  friends  ; 
and  others  had  died  in  the  faith  of  the  Gospel,  giving 
God  thanks  for  the  instruction  of  those  who  had  sought 

O 

them  out  in  their  wretchedness,  not  being  ashamed  of 


308       EXTENSION    OF    PHILANTHROPIC    EFFORT. 

their  bonds.  Some,  of  course,  have  exhibited  no  marks 
of  repentance;  but  that  any  are  reclaimed,  calls  for 
fervent  gratitude.  Not  only  in  England,  Scotland,  and 
Ireland,  but  in  different  parts  of  the  continent,  especially 
in  Russia,  Prussia,  and  Switzerland,  a  spirit  of  inquiry 
and  exertion  has  been  aroused  by  the  successful  exper 
iment  at  Newgate. 

This  true  philanthropist,  in  the  spirit  of  her  benevo 
lence,  has  visited  Paris,  and  been  gratified  to  find  many 
ladies  there,  disposed  to  adopt  her  views,  and  inquire 
into  the  condition  of  the  prisoner.  Though  the  pioneer 
in  this  enterprise  of  charity,  she  speaks  of  herself  as 
only  the  organ  of  others,  —  the  instrument  of  societies 
or  committees  ;  being  in  reality  a  disciple  of  that  dis 
claiming  humility,  which,  when  there  is  good  to  be 
done,  worketh  mightily,  but  when  praise  is  awarded, 
hideth  itself. 


The  harsh  key  grated  in  its  ward, 

The  massy  bolts  undrew, 
And  watchful  men,  of  aspect  stern, 

Gave  us  admittance  through,  — 
Admittance  where  so  many  pine 

A  blest  release  to  gain, 
And  desperate  hands  have  madly  striven 

To  wrest  the  bars  in  vain. 

What  untold  depths  of  human  woe 
Have  rolled  their  floods  along, 


MRS.    FRY   AT    NEWGATE    PRISON.  309 

Since  first  these  rugged  walls  were  heaved 

From  their  foundations  strong  ; 
Guilt,  with  its  seared  and  blackened  breast, 

Fierce  Hate,  with  sullen  glare, 
And  Justice,  smiting  unto  death, 

And  desolate  Despair. 

Here,  Crime  hath  spread  a  loathsome  snare 

For  souls  of  lighter  stain, 
And  Shame  hath  cowered,  and  Anguish  drained 

The  darkest  dregs  of  pain, 
And  Punishment  its  doom  hath  dealt, 

Relentless  as  the  grave, 
And  spurned  the  sinful  fellow-worm, 

Whom  Jesus  died  to  save. 

Ah !  there  they  are,  the  fallen  so  low, 

Who  bear  our  weaker  form, 
Whose  rude  and  haggard  features  tell 

Of  passion's  wrecking  storm  ; 
See,  how  on  ring  or  trinket  gay 

Are  bent  their  eager  eyes, 
As  though  by  habitude  constrained 

To  seize  the  unlawful  prize. 

Yet  be  not  strict  their  faults  to  mark, 

Nor  hasty  to  condemn, 
Oh  thou,  whose  erring  human  heart 

May  not  have  swerved  like  them  ; 
But  with  the  tear-drop  on  thy  cheek 

Adore  that  guardian  Power, 


310  MRS.    FKY   AT    NEWGATE    riUSON. 

"Who  held  thee  on  the  slippery  steep 
Amid  the  trial  hour. 

Who  entereth  to  this  dreary  cell  ? 

Who  dares  yon  hardened  throng, 
With  fearless  step  and  brow  serene, 

In  simple  goodness  strong  ? 
She  hath  a  Bible  in  her  hand, 

And  on  her  lips  the  spell 
Of  loving  and  melodious  speech, 

Those  lion  hearts  to  quell. 

She  readeth  from  that  Holy  Book, 

And  in  its  spirit  meek, 
Doth  warn  them  as  those  straying  ones, 

Whom  Christ  vouchsafes  to  seek  ; 
She  kneeleth  down,  and  asketh  Him, 

Who  deigned  the  lost  to  find, 
Back  to  his  blessed  fold  to  lead 

These  impotent  and  blind. 

Then  gently,  as  the  mother  lures 

Her  child  from  folly's  way, 
Good  counsel  eloquent  she  gives, 

To  guide  a  future  day  ; 
When  in  the  convict-ship  they  sail, 

And  sore  temptation  tries, 
Or  when  an  exile's  lot  they  bear 

'Neath  Australasian  skies. 

For  soon  the  dangerous  deep  they  dare  ; 
This  is  the  parting  hour ; 


MKS.  I-IIY  AT  M:\VGATE  PRISON.  311 

And  lo  !  their  burning  eyeballs  pour 

A  strange  and  copious  shower; 
Say  !  —  may  not  watchful  angels  scan 

Amid  these  tides  that  rise, 
Some  pearl  of  penitence,  to  wukr 

The  rapture  of  the  skies  ? 

Oh  beautiful !  though  not  with  youth, 

Bright  locks  of  sunny  ray, 
Or  changeful  charms  that  years  may  blot 

And  sickness  melt  away, 
But  with  sweet  lowliness  of  soul, 

The  love  that  never  dies, 
The  purity  and  truth  that  hold 

Communion  with  the  skies  :  — 

Oh  beautiful !  yet  not  with  gauds, 

That  strike  the  worldling's  eye, 
But  in  the  self-denying  toils 

Of  heaven-born  charity, 
Press  onward,  to  that  genial  home, 

That  realm  of  perfect  peace, 
"Where,  in  the  plaudit  of  thy  Lord, 

All  earthly  labors  cease. 


HAMPTON  COURT. 


THIS  palace,  about  twelve  miles  from  London  is, 
in  its  exterior,  neither  imposing  nor  symmetrical. 
A  series  of  irregular  quadrangles,  portions  of  it  are 
gratuitously  accorded  as  abodes  to  the  descendants 
of  noble  families,  reduced  in  fortune ;  so  that  it  has 
been  sometimes  ironically  called  the  "peer's  poor- 
house." 

Originally  built  by  "Wolsey,  and  extorted  from  him, 
as  a  gift,  by  the  jealous  tyranny  of  his  royal  master,  it 
was  dilapidated  during  the  wars  of  Cromwell,  and 
beautified  by  William  and  Mary,  who  chose  it  as  their 
favorite  residence.  In  the  conservatory,  among  many 
orange  trees,  two  are  pointed  out  as  their  coevals, 
which  their  antiquated  aspect  might  seem  to  confirm. 
We  paid  our  respects,  to  what  visitants  seldom  overlook, 
the  great,  old  Hamburgh  vine.  It  has  a  chronology  of 
nearly  a  century,  and  a  whole  green-house  devoted  to 
its  accommodation.  Its  stalk  is  like  the  trunk  of  a 
tree,  its  main  branch  extends  110  feet,  and  its  roots 
still  further,  running  about  eighteen  inches  below  the 
surface.  The  gardeners,  who  were  exceedingly  proud 


CROMWELL.  313 

of  it,  said  they  did  not  pour  water  upon  its  root,  but 
wa-hrd  the  branches  to  refresh  them.  It  produces  an 
immense  quantity  of  fruit ;  in  some  seasons,  we  were 
told,  about  1,400  pounds  weight,  or  between  2,000  and 
3,000  rich  black  clustres,  all  of  which  are  reserved  for 
the  royal  table. 

Cromwell,  in  the  height  of  his  power,  was  fond  of 
residing  at  Hampton  Court.  Here  he  solemnized  with 
pomp  the  entrance  of  two  of  his  daughters  into  the 
line  of  the  high  nobility;  one  by  her  marriage  with 
Lord  Falconburg,  the  other  with  Lord  Rich,  heir  to  the 
earldom  of  Warwick.  Here,  too,  his  favorite  daugh 
ter,  Mrs.  Claypole,  was  smitten  with  death,  and  in  her 
last  life-struggle  warned  him  of  sin,  and  adjured  him  to 
repentance.  Her  earnest  words,  mingled  with  moans 
of  pain,  haunted  his  conscience  as  he  wandered  from 
room  to  room,  in  the  restlessness  of  the  disease  that  at 
length  destroyed  him.  "  It  was  at  this  period,"  says 
Howitt,  in  his  interesting  '  Visits  to  Remarkable  Places,' 
"  that  George  Fox,  the  founder  of  the  Society  of  Friends, 
coming  to  Hampton  Court,  to  beg  him  to  put  a  stop  to 
religious  persecution,  met  him  riding  in  the  park,  and 
in  his  own  expressive  language,  as  he  drew  near  him, 
'felt  a  waft  of  death  go  forth  from  him  ;  '  and  coming  up 
to  him,  beheld  him  with  astonishment,  looking  already 
like  a  dead  man.  George  had  been  accustomed  to 
have  interviews  with  Cromwell,  who  used  to  express 
great  pleasure  in  his  society,  and  would  say,  '  Come 
again,  come  often,  for  I  feel  that  if  thou  and  I  were 
oftener  together,  we  should  be  nearer  to  each  other.' 


314  ENGLISH    SERVANTS. 

He  now  desired  George  to  come  to  the  palace  again 
the  next  day,  but  he  looked  on  him  already  as  a  dead 
man,  and  on  going  to  the  palace  gate,  found  him  too  ill 
to  be  seen  by  any  one,  and  in  a  few  days  he  died." 

There  are  multitudes  of  pictures  at  Hampton  Court, 
and  a  ceiling,  painted  by  Sir  James  Thornhill,  which 
many  admire.  Here,  also,  are  the  cartoons  of  Raphael, 
purchased  and  placed  there  by  Charles  the  First.  Yet 
the  principal  fascinations  of  this  interesting  spot, 
seemed  to  me  of  a  rural  order.  The  gardens  ;  the 
velvet  turf  of  the  broad  parks  ;  the  sound  of  the  crystal 
fountains,  sometimes  falling  into  basins,  where  leaped 
up  silver  and  golden-coated  fishes  ;  the  lofty  trees,  mu 
sical  with  birds  ;  and  the  quiet  seats  amid  shaded  gravel 
walks,  all  conspired  to  soothe  the  feelings  into  serenity 
and  repose. 

Much  agreeable  conversation  had  we  amid  those 
pleasant  haunts,  with  loved  English  friends.  A  mar 
riage  which  we  had  that  morning  attended,  led  our 
minds  to  the  congenial  subject  of  domestic  happiness, 
and  to  the  science  of  home-comfort,  which  seems  to  me 
better  understood  in  the  Mother  Land,  than  in  any 
other  which  I  have  critically  examined.  Among  the 
details  which  promote  it,  is  undoubtedly  the  excellent 
attendance  of  the  servants.  Each  one  is  at  his  post,  in 
the  neatest  costume,  ready  to  maintain  the  clock-work 
regularity  of  the  establishment.  The  interests  of  those 
whom  they  serve  are  their  own  ;  in  their  sickness  or 
sorrows  they  are  afflicted,  in  their  joys  they  rejoice,  to 
their  guests  they  show  observance  and  honor.  Thus 


ENGLISH    SERVANTS.  315 

identifying  themselves  with  those  whose  comfort  they 
promote,  they  are  happy  in  their  station,  and  in  the 
respect  which  attends  the  faithful  discharge  of  their 
duties.  They  consider  servitude  no  mark  of  disgrace, 
and  sometimes  continue  with  their  employers  ten,  fif 
teen,  or  twenty  years,  or  throughout  their  whole  lives. 
It  is  beautiful  to  see  them,  their  countenances  so  expres 
sive  of  contentment  with  their  condition,  uniting  in  the 
morning  and  evening  devotions  of  the  household,  with 
whom  their  sympathies  have  been  long  amalgamated. 
The  mistress  of  a  family,  thus  sustained,  has  opportu 
nity  for  the  better  points  of  her  character  to  expand, 
and  leisure  to  modify  that  of  her  children,  as  well  as  to 
enjoy  the  friends  who  partake  of  her  hospitality. 

When  I  see  the  quiet  dignity  of  the  housekeepers  of 
the  Mother-Land,  their  calm,  unruffled  reliance,  that 
what  ought  to  be  done,  will  be  done  at  the  right  time, 
and  well  done,  and  the  perfection  they  are  thus  enabled 
to  give  to  their  hospitality,  it  is  difficult  not  to  contrast 
it  with  our  own  hurried  reception  of  unexpected  guests, 
and  the  rapid  inquiry  of  anxious  thought,  whether  their 
comfort  can  be  compassed  without  our  hastening  ab 
ruptly  from  their  presence,  to  superintend  the  culinary 
department.  One  remembers,  too,  the  defection  which 
may  suddenly  take  place  of  all  in  the  shape  of  assist 
ants,  and  the  disorder  thus  introduced  into  the  domes 
tic  sphere,  to  the  inconvenience  of  the  best  loved,  and 
cannot  but  fervently  wish  for  such  a  correct  balance  of 
interests,  that  those  who  are  nominally  our  helpers, 


316  TRAINING   DOMESTICS. 

may  no  longer  be  actual   annoyances,  transient  allies, 
or  partial  belligerents,  but  Christian  friends. 

We  may  not,  indeed,  expect  under  our  form  of  gov 
ernment  that  precise  definement  of  [rank,  or  degree  of 
respectful  observance,  which  prevail  in  England :  yet, 
if  it  were  possible,  by  any  change  of  measures,  or 
heightened  intercourse  of  kindness,  to  secure  a  more 
permanent  continuance  and  stronger  personal  attach 
ment,  from  those  who  serve  us,  such  results  would  be 
worthy  of  earnest  inquiry  and  strenuous  effort.  It  was 
anciently  the  custom,  in  the  New  England  States,  for 
a  young  matron  to  take  under  her  roof  a  female  child, 
and  train  her  up,  as  an  useful  adjunct  in  the  household. 
She  was  sometimes  an  orphan,  and  this  gave  to  the 
transaction  a  feature  of  benevolence.  ^An  assistant  was 
thus  secured,  whom  it  might  be  hoped  that  every  year 
would  render  more  efficient  and  more  attached  to  those 
who  protected  her.  The  usage  is  now  less  prevalent, 
and  the  reason  alleged  is,  that  it  is  too  much  trouble. 
Trouble  ?  Yes.  There  is  doubtless  trouble  in  forming 
the  habits  of  a  child,  in  correcting  such  infirmities  as 
may  be  corrected,  and  having  patience  with  the  rest, 
and  in  faithfully  teaching  right  principles  for  this  life 
and  the  next.  Trouble  ?  Yes.  But  is  there  not  also 
the  payment  of  witnessing  its  improvement,  of  profit 
ing  by  its  exertions,  of  securing  its  affections,  and  of 
seeing  it  at  last,  if  God  will,  a  respectable  member  of 
the  community  ?  Trouble  ?  Yes.  And  how  many 
things  are  there  in  this  world  worth  the  having,  that 


HAMPTON    COURT.  317 

are  to  be  attained  by  us  women  without  some  trouble? 
Is  there  not  trouble  in  attempting  to  naturalize  foreign 
hirelings  ;  and  when  they  have  become  partially  accus 
tomed  to  our  idioms,  see  them  flit  away  without  warn 
ing,  like  the  shadow,  and  all  our  training  lost,  as  water 
upon  the  earth,  never  to  be  gathered  up  again  ? 

I  trust  these  remarks  will  be  forgiven,  for  the  sake 
of  the  motive  that  prompted  them.  It  is  natural  to 
desire  to  transplant  to  our  own  beloved,  native  land 
whatever  we  admire  in  a  foreign  clime,  especially  if  it 
affects  the  beauty  and  order  of  domestic  life,  and  the 
true  happiness  of  that  sex  on  whom  its  responsibilities 
devolve. 


T  was  with  a  bridal  party  that  we  went 

To  visit  Hampton  Court.     Our  thoughts  were  full 

Of  thrilling  pictures  we  had  seen  at  morn, 

The  youthful  pair,  the  chapel,  and  the  priest, 

The  gathered  groups  that  marked  the  holy  rite, 

And  that  still  smaller  circle,  in  whose  breasts 

Wrought  strong  emotions,  as  the  deathless  vow 

Trembled  on  lips  beloved.     With  earnest  gaze 

The  grateful  poor,  and  that  small  Sunday  class 

Blest  with  her  teachings,  who  returned  no  more, 

Followed  the  bridal  chariot,  as  it  led 

With  milk-white  steeds  the  fair  procession  back 

To  her  paternal  halls.     Around  the  board, 

For  rich  collation  spread,  the  green-house  strew'd 

Its  glowing  wealth,  and  mid  the  marriage  guests 


318  HAMPTON    COURT. 

Like  blossoms  mixed,  the  bright-haired  children  sate, 

Delighted  from  a  blessed  bride  to  win 

Kind  word  or  kiss.     Then  rose  the  pastor's  prayer, 

And  the  sweet  hymn,  for  music  waits  alike 

On  Love  and  Faith,  —  on  this  world  and  the  next. 

> 

—  But  all  too  soon  the  fond  leave-taking  came, 

The  parent's  benediction,  and  the  embrace 

Of  loving  kindred;  for  impatient  steeds 

Curving  their  necks,  by  white-gloved  coachmen  reined, 

Waited  the  bride,  and  lo !   her  silvery  veil 

And  snowy  satin  robe  gave  sudden  place 

To  traveller's  graver  costume. 

Thus  doth  fleet 

Woman's  brief  goddess-ship,  and  soon  she  takes 
The  sober  matron  tint,  content  to  yield 
Tinsel  and  trappings,  if  her  heart  be  right, 
That  in  her  true  vocation  she  may  shed 
A  higher  happiness  on  him  she  loves, 
For  earth  and  heaven. 

As  from  her  early  home 

And  pleasant  gates  the  gentle  bride  passed  forth, 
Big  tears  stood  glittering  in  the  old  servants'  eyes, 
Deepening  their  murmured  benison  on  her 
Who  was  "  so  like  the  mother  that  was  gone, 
The  sainted  mistress."     'T  is  a  heaven-taught  art 
To  graft  enduring  love  on  servitude  ; 
And  often  have  I  joyed  to  see  how  deep 
Around  the  hearths  of  England  is  that  root 
Of  comfort,  whose  entwining  tendrils  bind 


HAMPTON    COUKT.  319 

Each  stratum  of  the  compact  household  firm, 
The  lowest  to  the  highest ;  those  who  serve, 
Not  of  their  lot  ashamed,  and  those  who  rule 
Regardful  of  the  charity  which  counts 
A  life-long  service,  as  a  bond  of  love, 
Here  and  hereafter. 

So,  the  wedding  past, 

Bright  in  its  hallowed  hopes,  but  not  without 
Some  touch  of  tender  grief ;  for  here,  below, 
In  all  her  proudest  temples  Joy  doth  set 
Lachrymatories,  and  her  banquet-board 
Hath  aye  some  subterranean  path,  that  tends 
Unto  the  house  of  tears. 

And  then,  to  break 

That  heavy  pause,  which  on  the  heart  doth  fall, 
When  what  it  loves  departeth,  forth  we  went, 
As  I  have  said  before.     Well  pleased  we  swept 
O'er  vale  and  common,  and  by  that  green  lane 
Where  Wandsworth  boasts  its  nested  nightingales, 
By  lordly  manor,  and  o'er  lonely  heath, 
Whose  furze  and  broom  make  glad  the  donkey  tribe, 
Or  'neath  the  enormous  chesntuts  that  o'ersweep 
Richmond,  the  loved  of  Thames,  and  by  the  shades 
Of  Bushy  Park,  a  monarch's  late  abode, 
Until  the  gates  of  Hampton  Court  we  passed, 
And  scanned  its  purlieus  fair.     The  lime  and  yew 
Stood  with  inwoven  arms,  and  countless  flowers 
Amid  their  garden  cells  of  bordering  turf 
Wrought  out  a  rich  mosaic.     Here  the  Maze 
With  labyrinthine  lines  the  foot  allured, 


320  HAMPTON    COURT. 

And  there  the  pampered  people  of  the  pool 

Swam  lazily,  in  gold  and  silver  coats, 

To  take  some  dainty  morsel  from  the  hand 

Of  merry  childhood.     The  old  Hamburgh  vine 

Round  its  glass  palace  groped  with  monstrous  arms, 

And  filled  each  nook  with  clusters,  proud  to  load 

The  royal  table.     In  yon  tennis-court 

How  many  a  feat  of  strength  and  shout  of  mirth 

Have  held  their  course,  since  from  these  halls  arose 

The  Christmas  carol  of  old  Tudor's  time. 

Raphael's  bold  pencil  here  with  wondrous  power 

Survives,  and  many  a  modern  artist  decks 

Ceiling,  and  wall,  and  staircase.     But 't  is  vain 

In  lays  like  mine,  to  tell  what  pictures  say 

From  age  to  age  ;  for  Painting  may  not  bend 

To  Poesy.     She,  on  her  pedestal, 

Robed  with  the  rainbow  stands,  —  and  mocks  at  those 

Who,  with  a  goose-quill  and  a  drop  of  ink, 

Are  fain  to  take  her  likeness.     Quaint  conceits 

Of  him  of  Orange  and  his  Stuart  queen 

Adorn  these  haunts,  —  while  frequent  on  the  walls 

Their  blended  names  in  curious  love-knot  twine. 

Here,  too,  stout  Cromwell  stretched  himself  to  die; 

His  pale  lip  sated  with  the  love  of  power 

By  blood  obtained. 

But  most  of  all  we  meet, 
Where'er  in  musing  reverie  we  tread, 
Wolsey,  —  the  master-spirit,  who  upreared 
This  princely  pile,  and  from  a  germ  obscure 
Towered  up  to  such  o'erwhelming  magnitude 


HAMPTON    COURT.  321 

Of  power,  that  monarchs  felt  his  dampening  shade 
Fall  on  their  greatness. 

Here  his  feasts  were  spread 
Magnificent,  —  and  here,  with  clerkly  skill, 
He  fostered  learning,  while  his  secret  thought 
Was  how  to  make  his  haughty  honors  grow, 
And  proudly  throne  them  on  a  thunder-cloud 
For  realms  to  kneel  to.     But  the  daring  hand, 
That  grasped  so  long  the  crowned  lion's  mane, 
Failed,  and  he  fell,  —  fell  low  to  rise  no  more. 
So,  with  a  solemn  sadness,  he  went  down, 
As  great  minds  do. 

Was  there  no  penitence 
In  that  deploring  eloquence,  which  blamed 
The  folly  of  the  man  that  serves  his  king, 
More  than  his  God  ?  in  that  remorseful  glance, 
Of  retrospection,  which  so  analyzed 
All  pomps  of  life,  and  found  them  vanity  ? 
In  that  humility  of  voice,  which  asked 
At  Leicester-Abbey,  with  his  broken  train, 
But  for  that  little  charity  of  earth 
Which  the  dead  beggar  finds  ? 

We  trust  the  cloud 

Fell  not  in  vain  upon  him,  but  restored 
His  chastened  spirit  to  the  Pardoner. 

Is  pride  for  man  ?  the  crushed  before  the  moth  ? 
Is  it  for  angels  ?     Answer,  ye  who  walked 
Exulting  on  the  battlements  of  Heaven, 
And  fell  interminably.     Dizzy  heights 
21 


322  HAMPTON    COURT. 

Suit  not  the  born  of  clay.     Oh,  rather  walk 
With  noiseless  footstep,  and  with  lowly  eye, 
Bent  on  thine  own  original ;  nor  mark 
With  taunt  of  bitter  blame  thy  brother's  fall.5 
In  dust  his  frailties  sleep.     Awake  them  not, 
Nor  probe  the  secrets  of  the  curtaining  tomb, 
But  lead  the  memory  of  his  virtues  forth 
Into  the  sun-light. 

So  shalt  thou  fulfil 
The  Saviour's  law  of  love. 


MARCH,  AT  DENMARK  HILL. 


METHOUGHT  this  herald  month  of  Spring 

Was  wont  a  frown  to  wear, 
Or  with  capricious  favor  fling 

Her  gifts  and  bounties  rare, 

Even  sometimes  with  a  shrewish  voice 

Among  the  hills  to  rave, 
And  check  the  aspiring  buds  that  burst 

Too  soon  their  wintry  grave. 

But  here,  like  patron,  dressed  in  smiles, 

The  tinted  turf  she  treads, 
And  whispers  to  the  humblest  plants, 

To  lift  their  trembling  heads, 

And  o'er  the  lustrous  laurel-hedge, 
And  where  the  vine-leaf  curls, 

She  bids  the  pendant  dew-drops  throw 
Their  strings  of  braided  pearls. 


324  MARCH,   AT   DENMARK   HILL. 

Out  peeps  the  Crocus  from  its  nook, 
And  looks  with  timid  eye, 

To  see  if  on  the  Snowdrop's  brow 
A  blight,  like  frost,  may  lie : 

But  lo  !  the  expanded  Primrose  smiles, 

And  the  Ivy  bids  it  hail, 
And  freely  in  the  morning  beam 

Refresh  its  colors  pale. 

It  sees  the  bright  Hepatica 
With  the  buxom  Daisies  play 

Their  merry  game  of  hide  and  seek, 
Until  the  closing  day, 

It  marks  against  the  sheltering  wall 
The  Almond's  broidered  vest, 

And  the  princely  Peach  and  Apricot, 
In  all  their  glory  drest, 

The  modest  Violet  puts  on 

Her  robe  of  varied  die, 
And  to  the  banquet-hall  of  Spring 

Doth  enter  joyously. 

The  mighty  city  hath  a  world 
Within  its  heaving  breast, 

And  there  the  pulse  of  busy  life 
Doth  never  pause  nor  rest. 


MARCH,   AT   DENMARK   HILL.  325 

The  city  sends  a  greenhouse  warmth 

From  out  its  fostering  heart, 
And  bids  the  germs  of  intellect 

To  sudden  beauty  start. 

But  nature's  efflorescence  seeks 

The  blessed  sun  in  vain, 
Where  London  crowds  her  domes  of  stone, 

And  rears  the  eclipsing  fane. 

It  is  not  so  at  Denmark  Hill, 

Each  plant  finds  room  to  spread 
Its  little  hand,  and  take  the  wealth 

A  bounteous  sky  doth  shed  ; 

Finds  room  to  ope  its  gentle  eye 

On  verdant  lawn  and  vale, 
And  have  its  tiny  cradle  rocked 

By  every  nursing  gale  ; 

To  feel  its  infant  lungs  expand, 

From  clogging  coal-dust  free, 
And  hear  the  song  of  uncaged  birds 

From  each  rejoicing  tree. 

Here,  too,  a  sacred  plant  doth  spring, 

Which  once  profusely  grew 
Within  the  walls  of  Palestine, 

Surcharged  with  heavenly  dew. 


326  MARCH,  AT  DENMARK   HILL. 

Beside  the  convent's  wicket-gate 

In  ancient  times  it  bent, 
And  blossoms  still  on  Asia's  sands, 

By  the  roving  Arab's  tent. 

Upon  Mount  Bernard's  cloud-wrapt  cliff, 
Where  the  bitter  tempest  blows, 

It  patient  bides  the  chilling  blast 
Of  everlasting  snows. 

And  where  our  poor,  red  forest-race, 
Beside  their  fathers'  grave, 

Had  once  a  home,  its  foliage  fair 
Did  o'er  their  cabins  wave. 

It  findeth  here  a  genial  soil, 
And  putteth  forth  each  morn 

A  rose-cup  in  an  evergreen, 
That  hath  no  hidden  thorn. 

It  bloometh  for  the  stranger's  hand, 
And  when  it  shuts  at  night, 

Doth  leave  behind  a  secret  spell, 
To  make  his  visions  bright. 


c 


Young  children,  with  their  sparkling  eyes, 

Culled  its  fresh  buds  for  me, 
Before  they  knew  its  hallowed  name 

Was  Hospitality. 


MARCH,   AT    DENMARK    HILL.  327 

And  for  the  blessed  balm  it  breathed, 

And  for  its  cheering  ray, 
When  from  the  garden  of  my  heart 

I  was  so  far  away, 

And  for  the  fragrance  of  its  flowers, 

And  for  its  fruitage  sweet, 
I  '11  love  the  soil  of  Denmark  Hill, 

While  memory  holds  her  seat. 


It  was  at  the  pleasant  spot,  which  has  given  a  subject 
to  the  foregoing  poem,  about  four  miles  from  London, 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  Thames,  that  I  first  learned  to 
consider  the  month  of  March  other  than  a  season  of 
wild  winds,  or  a  codicil  to  old  Winter's  will  and  tes 
tament.  There  I  saw  with  surprise,  as  early  as  its 
second  week,  the  primrose  and  violet,  the  polyanthus 
and  hepatica,  blooming  in  the  parterres ;  and  rhubarb, 
brocoli,  cauliflowers,  and  other  esculents,  vigorously 
flourishing  in  the  kitchen-gardens. 

On  returning  from  France,  in  January,  we  were 
struck  with  the  superior  verdure  of  England,  whose 
ever-living  hedges  scorned  the  livery  of  Winter.  Still 
the  degree  of  cold,  though  far  less  severe  than  what 
we  had  been  accustomed  to  feel  at  home,  was  rendered 
more  disagreeable,  and  probably  more  hurtful,  by  its 
combination  with  humidity.  This  excess  of  moisture, 
causing  even  the  trunks  of  trees  to  grow  green  and 
mossy,  united,  as  it  often  is,  with  a  murky,  misty  atmos- 


328  ENGLISH   HOSPITALITY. 

phere,  makes  an  English  winter,  though  comparatively 
mild,  a  depressing  season  to  those  nurtured  under  sun 
nier  skies. 

But  the  bright  footsteps  of  Spring  made  amends  for 
all.  At  Denmark  Hill,  and  its  vicinity,  I  was  enwrap 
ped  in  a  region  of  flowers,  where,  amid  a  knot  of  fami 
lies,  derived  from  the  good '  Gurney  root,  I  sojourned 
for  a  time,  more  as  an  inmate  than  a  guest.  The 
party  with  whom  I  left  home,  returned  to  our  native 
land  in  February ;  but  by  the  advice  of  friends  on 
both  sides  of  the  water,  I  forbore  the  inconvenience 
and  risk  of  a  winter  passage,  and  in  my  consequent 
loneliness,  the  kindness  of  the  English  character  shone 
conspicuously  forth.  I  was  not  permitted  to  remain 
for  a  day  at  a  public  house ;  but  in  different  abodes, 
where  I  was  induced  to  become  a  visitant,  my  literary 
occupations  were  cared  for,  had  patience  with,  and  up 
held,  while  every  effort  was  made  to  replace  the  heart- 
solitude  of  a  stranger,  by  the  sweet  home-charities. 

To  whatever  spot  it  was  supposed  I  might  desire  to 
see,  I  was  courteously  and  zealously  taken,  by  a  vari 
ety  of  friends.  Among  these,  was  the  home  of  a  gen 
tleman-farmer,  a  class  of  the  English  community  for 
whom  I  had  high  respect,  and  whose  habitudes  I  was 
gratified  to  have  opportunity  to  observe.  It  was 
at  Upton  Lea,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Windsor  Castle, 
that  I  was  invited  to  pass  a  day  or  two  at  the  residence 
of  a  young  and  interesting  couple,  who  conducted  a 
large  rural  establishment.  Broad  fields  were  there 
under  the  neatest  and  most  skilful  processes  of  culti- 


RURAL    LIFE.  329 

vation,  while  the  healthful,  happy  faces  of  the  laborers 
presented  a  cheering  picture  of  industry  and  content. 
Connected  with  the  establishment  was  a  large  and  pro 
ductive  garden,  adorned  in  its  more  tasteful  parts  by 
winding  gravel-walks,  shrubbery,  and  rock  work,  while 
here  and  there  immense  baskets,  containing  tons  of 
mould,  gave  nutriment  to  hyacinths  and  other  fragrant 
flowers,  and  nesting  birds  poured  from  vine  and  trellis 
their  descant  of  love. 

It  was  here  that  I  first  fully  heard  the  thrilling,  une 
qualled  notes  of  the  nightingale.  The  youthful  mis 
tress  of  this  abode,  with  her  clustering  curls  flowing 
gracefully  over  her  neck,  seemed  the  Lady  Bountiful 
of  the  village.  Ever  had  she,  in  her  work-basket, 
some  useful  garment  for  the  children  of  those  employed 
on  the  farm,  as  well  as  for  those  of  the  neighboring 
poor,  whom  she  weekly  collected  around  her,  for  instruc 
tion  in  the  use  of  the  needle,  and  other  branches  of 
knowledge.  She  also  taught  them  sacred  music,  until 
by  the  training  of  her  rich  voice  they  became  such 
proficients  as  to  constitute  a  no  despisable  choir.  They 
performed  every  Sunday  at  the  neat  chapel  which  had 
been  erected  by  her  husband,  and  his  brothers,  for  the 
benefit  of  these  people.  By  their  liberality,  also,  the 
clergyman  received  his  support  ;  their  fortune,  thus 
nobly  expended,  having  been  entirely  the  result  of 
agriculture. 

Why  is  it  so  generally  supposed,  in  my  own  coun 
try,  that  this  honorable  profession  must  exclude  the 
pleasures  of  taste  and  intellect,  and  bind  the  thoughts 


330  CAPACITIES    FOR    FRIENDSHIP. 

down  to  a  succession  of  homely  toils  or  petty  emolu 
ments  ?  Need  it  be  so,  if  there  was  a  spirit  of  content 
ment  with  moderate  gains,  and  if  the  desire  of  becom 
ing  rich  was  not  made  the  ruling  motive  ?  Rural  life, 
as  it  is  seen  in  many  parts  of  England,  combined  with 
simplicity  and  systematic  diligence,  love  of  letters, 
refinement,  and  active  benevolence,  is  but  another  name 
for  true  independence  and  rational  happiness ;  or,  in 
the  words  of  Cowper, 

"  Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Friendly  to  all  the  best  pursuits  of  man." 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  hospitalities  of  Eng 
land.  In  city  and  country,  in  many  varieties  of  rank 
and  style  of  living,  it  has  been  my  lot  to  find  them 
always  perennial  and  pure.  They  surpass  my  power 
of  either  description  or  praise. 

The  English,  more  than  most  nations,  may  be  char 
acterized  by  capacities  for  true  and  enduring  friend 
ship.  They  do  not  put  forth  their  best  virtues  at  first 
sight,  nor  overwhelm  a  stranger  with  courtesies,  nor 
incur  risks,  like  King  Hezekiah,  by  the  display  of  their 
most  precious  treasures  to  foreign  eyes.  They  make 
no  protestations  beyond  what  they  feel,  and  are  willing 
to  embody  in  deeds. 

A  similar  principle  of  integrity  seems  to  pervade 
social  intercourse.  They  speak  what  they  conceive  to 
be  truth,  whether  it  is  likely  to  render  them  popu 
lar  or  not,  whether  it  coincides  or  not  with  the  opin- 


DOMESTIC    CHARACTER.  331 

ions  and  prejudices  of  those  with  whom  they  converse. 
They  are  also  distinguished  by  a  love  of  order.  The 
ranks  are  clearly  defined,  and  are  not  ambitious  to  en 
croach  on  established  boundaries.  Children  are  taught 
to  obey.  Servants  are  not  ashamed  of  their  stations. 
The  young  submit  to  the  discipline  of  schools  and  col 
leges.  The  course  of  education  is  to  give  a  solid  base, 
rather  than  to  hang  out  a  broad,  gay  banner.  Strict 
ness  and  punctuality,  in  those  who  rule,  beget  the  spirit 
of  trust  in  those  who  are  subordinate,  and  aid  to  keep 
things  upon  their  right  foundations. 

The  old  English  character  is  emphatically  best  seen 
at  home,  by  the  fireside,  and  at  the  family  altar.  In 
the  enjoyment  of  the  comfort  which  they  so  well  un 
derstand  ;  in  the  exercise  of  a  hospitality,  which,  more 
than  any  other  people,  they  know  how  to  render  per 
fect  ;  in  the  maintenance  of  that  authority  on  which  the 
strength  and  symmetry  of  the  domestic  fabric  depends, 
and  in  the  admixture  of  religious  obligation  with  the 
daily  routine  of  duties  and  affections,  there  is  a  straight 
forwardness,  a  whole-heartedness,  that  commands  re 
spect,  and  incite  those,  who  have  descended  from  them, 
to  glory  in  their  ancestry. 

While  at  Upton  Lea,  I  went  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  N., 
and  their  sister,  Miss  H.,  to  Windsor  Castle,  the  classic 
ground  of  Eton,  and  the  sequestered  churchyard, 
where  Gray  wrote  that  unequalled  Elegy  which  finds 
an  echo  in  every  bosom.  How  touching  is  the  circum 
stance,  that  it  should  have  been  repeated  by  Wolfe,  the 
night  before  his  fatal  attack  on  Quebec,  and  by  our 


332  WINDSOR    CASTLE. 

own  great  statesman,  Webster,  as  the  footstep  of  death 
drew  nigh. 

Beautiful,  indeed,  is  Windsor  Forest,  and  the  noble 
park,  which  is  said  to  be  fourteen  miles  in  circumfer 
ence.  To  St.  George's  Chapel,  an  elegant  specimen  of 
Gothic  architecture,  the  steps  of  the  traveller  are  invol 
untarily  turned ;  for  there,  amid  the  "  majesty  of  buried 
England,"  is  the  celebrated  monument  to  the  Princess 
Charlotte,  that  young  mother  over  whom  a  whole  na 
tion  wept. 

The  palace  of  Windsor  stands  upon  an  elevated  site, 
and  is  the  proudest  residence  of  English  royalty.  The 
House  of  Brunswick  have  been  especially  partial  to  it, 
and  George  the  Fourth  lavished  immense  sums  on  its 
embellishment.  Its  terrace,  nearly  two  thousand  feet 
in  length,  with  its  formidable  rampart  of  freestone,  fur 
nishes  a  promenade  unsurpassed  in  extent  and  beauty 
of  prospect.  From  the  Round  Tower,  so  famed  in 
history,  one  might  almost  fancy  the  burly  form,  and 
fierce  brow  of  William  the  Conqueror  looking  forth. 
The  interior  of  the  Castle  is  in  harmony  with  its  sur 
roundings.  The  corridors,  the  galleries,  the  paintings, 
the  state  apartments,  are  wonderfully  magnificent. 
Among  the  rich  cabinets,  is  a  curious  old  ebony  one, 
formerly  belonging  to  Cardinal  Wolsey,  —  perhaps  the 
repository  of  some  of  the  secrets  of  that  ambition  by 
which  he  fell. 

Having  express  permission  from  Lord  Uxbridge  to 
see  every  part  of  the  Castle,  we  proposed  taking  a 
glance  at  the  rooms  appropriated  to  her  Royal  High- 


WINDSOR    CASTLE.  333 

negS)  —  a  bantling  of  some  six  months  old.  Where 
upon,  our  cicerone,  who  was  quite  intelligent  and  cau 
tious,  replied,  with  eyes  marvellously  dilated,  "  No, 
indeed !  I  have  never  been  allowed  to  see  them  my 
self." 

Housekeeping  propensities  moved  us  willingly  to 
follow  our  leader  through  the  kitchens,  pastry-room, 
larder,  &c.,  and  to  take  interest  in  the  nice  and  com 
plicated  instrumentalities  by  which  six  hundred  per 
sons,  who  are  comprised  in  the  queen's  retinue,  are 
daily  supplied  with  creature-comforts.  "  Do  you  see 
them  two  boilers,  over  that  furnace  ?  "  said  an  explain 
ing  voice.  "  "Well,  in  each  on  'em,  five  pecks  of  good 
potatoes  is  steamed  for  dinner,  without  a  drop  of  water 
ever  touching  them." 

The  various  departments  of  this  immense  building 
were  exhibited  by  different  personages.  The  show 
man  of  the  gold  plate  was  particularly  zealous  in  his 
office,  and  fond  of  repeating  that  it  cost  more  than  two 
millions  of  pounds  sterling.  It  extended  through  sev 
eral  apartments,  locked  in  glass  cases,  and  arranged  on 
long  tables.  There  were  superb  candelabras,  plateaus, 
salvers,  piles  of  massy  plates,  and  every  conceivable 
article  of  splendor  for  the  table.  Among  these  were 
salt-cellars  in  a  curious  variety  of  forms,  sea-shells,  and 
fat  donkies,  with  panniers.  There  was  also  the  great 
gold  tiger's  head,  with  eyes  of  pearl  and  teeth  of  rock- 
crystal,  surmounted  by  a  peacock  flaunting  with  pre 
cious  stones,  taken  from  Tippoo  Saib,  and  accounted 
the  chief  glory  of  his  barbaric  throne. 


334  GRAY'S  MONUMENT. 

Never  have  I  beheld  such  a  display  of  magnificence 
as  in  this  favorite  abode  of  England's  Queen.  Was  it 
a  bee,  from  the  greenhouse  flowers,  that  buzzed  in  my 
ear,  —  "  cui  Jjono  ?  "  or  a  voice  in  the  musing  heart  ? 

One  prayer  of  grateful  poverty 
Shall  better  soothe  the  soul. 

Surfeited  with  display,  we  drew  near  the  village 
church,  whose  precincts  the  lyre  of  Gray  has  hallowed. 
Rain-drops  hung  heavily  among  the  drooping  branches, 
and  weighed  down  the  slender  vines  that  crept  over 
the  low  mossy  gravestones.  It  was  not  difficult  to 
imagine  the  slender  form  of  the  bard,  meditating  in  this 
secluded  spot,  his  brow  pale  from  the  studious  cloisters 
of  Cambridge,  for  he  often  sought  relaxation  and  re 
freshment  from  learned  toils  amid  these  rural  shades. 
Love  of  the  mother,  as  has  been  the  case  with  so  many 
distinguished  men,  predominated  through  his  life,  and 
deepened  at  its  close.  An  epitaph  from  his  hand  to 
her  memory,  in  that  same  quiet  churchyard,  records, 
that  "  she  had  shown  the  most  tender  offices  of  love  to 
many  children,  one  only  of  whom  had  the  unhappiness 
to  survive  her." 

At  a  short  distance  is  his  own  lofty  monument,  on 
which  are  engraven,  in  large  characters,  stanzas  from 
his  Elegy.  It  is  erected  in  ornamental  grounds  be 
longing  to  the  Penn  family,  who  keep  them  open  for 
visitants  and  strangers.  Their  own  pleasant  mansion 
is  seen  through  embowering  trees,  where  Gray  was 


GRAVE    OP    WILLIAM   PENN.  335 

wont  to  pass  a  part  of  the  summer  months,  with  an 
endeared  relative.  In  its  vicinity  is  the  grave  of  Wil 
liam  Penn,  severe  in  its  simplicity,  marked  only  by  a 
mound  of  earth.  And  there,  memories  of  that  plain- 
garbed,  firm-souled  man,  who  crossed  the  ocean  to  bear 
the  spirit  of  peace,  and  to  found  our  beautiful  city  of 
brotherly  love,  mingled  with  those  of  the  classic,  pen 
sive,  picturesque  poet,  whose  Elegy,  standing  as  we 
did  in  its  secluded  birthplace,  we  felt  would  be  read 
and  loved,  as  long  as  the  "  still  sad  music  of  humanity" 
shall  vibrate  through  the  hearts  of  men. 


HAMPSTEAD. 

COME  out  to  Hampstead.     For  't  is  beautiful 
To  'scape  the  city's  atmosphere  of  smoke, 
Which,  like  an  inky  curtain,  wrappeth  it, 
And  drink  the  breezes  of  this  vale  of  health. 
'T  is  beautiful  to  view  the  broad  expanse, 
County  on  county  stretching,  till  at  last 
The  fading  outline,  like  a  misty  dream, 
Blends  with  the  blue  horizon. 

Yon  wide  heath, 

From  which  the  prospect  opens,  oft  hath  lured 
The  truant  urchins  of  the  neighboring  school 
To  leave  their  restless  bed,  and  scale  the  walls, 
Stealing  a  starlight  ramble.     Fancying  oft 
A  vengeful  usher  in  each  prickly  bush, 
Whose  intercepting  arms  their  path  oppose, 
They  snatch  a  trembling  taste  of  liberty, 
Dashed  with  the  dregs  of  fear.     Ah,  happier  then 
Deem  they  the  cottage  child,  who  wakes  at  morn 
Unvexed  by  thistly  learning,  uncondemned 
To  pore  o'er  lexicons,  oft  drenched  in  tears, 
But  at  its  simple  leisure  free  to  roam, 


HAMPSTEAD.  337 

Filling  its  pinafore  with  furzy  flowers, 

Or  now  and  then  some  rough  and  sparkling  stone 

Making  its  prize. 

But  greater  wealth  I  found 
Than  richest  flowers,  or  diamonds  of  the  mine, 
Beneath  a  quiet  roof.     For  she  was  there, 
Whose  wand  Shaksperian  knew  to  touch  at  will 
The  varying  passions  of  the  soul,  and  chain 
Their  tameless  natures  in  her  magic  verse. 
Fast  by  that  loving  sister's  side  she  sat, 
"Who  wears  all  freshly,  mid  her  fourscore  years, 
The  beauty  of  the  heart. 

He,  too,  was  there, 

The  tasteful  bard  of  Italy,  who  crowned 
Memory  with  wreaths  of  song,  when  life  was  new ; 
So  she  with  grateful  love  doth  cherish  him, 
And  for  his  green  age  from  her  treasure-hoard 
Give  back  the  gifts  he  gave.     T  is  wise  to  make 
Memory  our  friend  in  youth,  for  she  can  bring 
Payment  when  Hope  is  bankrupt,  and  light  up 
Life's  evening  hour  with  gladness.     There  they  sat, 
Plucking  those  fruits  of  friendship,  which  by  time 
Are  mellower  made,  and  richer.    And  I  felt 
It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  cross  the  sea 
And  listen  to  their  voices.     There  they  sat, 
Simply  serene,  as  though  not  laurel-crowned, 
And  glad  of  heart,  as  in  their  youthful  prime, 
A  trio,  such  as  I  may  ne'er  expect 
To  look  upon  again. 


22 


338  HAMPSTEAD. 

Whene'er  I  think 

Of  rural  Hampstead,  and  would  fain  recall 
Its  lovely  scenes,  their  brightest  tissue  fades, 
Like  a  dim  picture,  and  those  forms  alone 
Stand  forth  and  breathe,  their  lips  still  uttering  sounds 
Like  music. 

Such  eternity  hath  mind 
Amid  the  things  that  perish. 


Among  the  pleasant  drives  for  which  I  was  indebted 
to  Mrs.  B.,  of  Portland  Place,  while  passing  a  few  days 
at  her  elegant  mansion,  was  one  to  pay  our  respects  to 
Miss  Joanna  Baillie,  at  Hampstead.  This  remarkable 
lady  is  above  the  common  height,  erect  and  dignified 
in  her  person,  and  of  truly  cordial  manners.  On  my 
arrival,  she  had  just  returned  from  a  long  walk  to  visit 
the  poor,  and  though  past  the  age  of  seventy-six,  and  the 
day  chill  and  windy,  she  seemed  unfatigued,  and  even 
invigorated  by  the  exercise.  She  resides  with  a  beloved 
sister,  several  years  older  than  herself,  who  still  retains 
a  beaming  and  lovely  countenance. 

With  them  was  Rogers,  the  veteran  poet,  who  has 
numbered  his  eightieth  winter,  but  still  keeps  a  per 
petual  smile  of  Spring  in  his  heart.  His  polished 
manners  make  him  a  favorite  in  the  higher  circles, 
while  the  true  kindness  of  his  nature  is  attractive  to 
all.  Many  from  my  own  land  can  bear  witness  to  his 
polite  attentions,  and  to  the  exquisite  collection  of  the 
fine  arts,  which  his  house  in  London  exhibits ;  and 


ROGERS.  —  MISS  BAILLIE.  339 

among  the  masters  of  the  lyre  in  foreign  realms,  there 
is  none  of  whom  I  think  with  more  regret,  that  I  shall 
see  their  faces  no  more  on  earth. 

The  sublimity  of  Miss  Baillie's  poetry  is  felt  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  She  is  a  native  of  Scotland,  and 
sister  of  the  late  celebrated  physician  of  that  name, 
whose  monument  is  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Whether 
it  was  the  frankness  of  her  nature,  that  touched  the 
chords  of  sympathy,  I  know  not ;  but  it  was  painful  to 
bid  her  farewell. 

Those  who  have  been  impressed  by  her  tragic  power 
in  the  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  will  not  fail  to  appre 
ciate  that  more  humble  and  sweet  emanation  of  genius, 
a  recent  birthday  tribute  to  her  sister  Agnes,  of  whom 
I  have  spoken,  —  the  loved  companion  of  her  days. 
Surely  I  shall  be  thanked  for  adding  the  following 
fragment  of  it. 

"  So  here  thou  art,  —  still  in  thy  comely  age 
Active  and  ardent.    Let  what  will  engage 
The  present  moment,  whether  hopeful  seeds 
In  garden-plat  thou  sow,  or  noxious  weeds 
From  the  fair  flower  remove,  or  ancient  lore 
In  chronicle,  or  legend  rare  explore, 
Or  on  the  parlor  hearth  with  kitten  play, 
Stroking  its  tabby  sides,  or  take  thy  way 
To  gain  with  hasty  step  some  cottage  door, 
On  helpful  errand  to  the  neighboring  poor, 
Active  and  ardent,  —  to  my  fancy's  eye 
Thou  still  art  young,  in  spite  of  time  gone  by. 
Oh,  ardent,  liberal  spirit !  quickly  feeling 
The  touch  of  sympathy,  and  kindly  dealing 


340  MRS.  HALL. THE    ROSARY. 

With  sorrow  and  distress,  forever  sharing 
The  unhoarded  mite,  nor  for  to-morrow  earing ; 
Accept,  dear  Agnes,  on  thy  natal  day, 
An  unadorned,  but  not  a  careless  lay." 

Numbered  with  other  cherished  recollections  was  a 
call  at  Old  Brompton,  on  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall,  the  writer 
of  "  Sketches  of  Irish  Character,"  and  other  spirited 
tales  that  portray  the  scenery  and  customs  of  that 
"warm-hearted  and  weeping  isle,"  of  which  she  is  a 
native.  Her  husband  possesses  great  taste  and  skill  in 
the  fine  arts,  and  is  the  editor  of  several  splendidly 
illustrated  volumes,  two  of  which,  bearing  the  title  of 
"  Gems,"  are  selections  from  the  ancient  and  modern 
poets  of  Great  Britain,  with  concise  biographies  and 
criticisms.  Their  present  residence,  bearing  the  name 
of  "  The  Rosary,"  was  perfumed  when  I  saw  it  by  the 
breath  of  violets,  and  ringing  with  the  carol  of  birds  ; 
a  genial  retreat  for  spirits  united  in  the  pursuits  of 
literature  and  the  bonds  of  love.  The  mother  of  the 
authoress,  Madam  Fielding,  a  lady  of  amiable  manners 
and  countenance,  finds  a  pleasant  home  with  these  her 
only  children,  and  in  their  duteous  care,  and  affectionate 
attentions,  it  would  seem  that  time  passed  over  her,  un 
marked  by  those  changes  which  it  is  wont  to  bring  to 
life's  decline. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  castles,  moated  round, 

With  antique  tower  and  battlement  arrayed ; 

Talk  not  to  me  of  palaces,  I've  found 

So  sweet  a  haunt,  that  these  are  lost  in  shade  ; 


LITERARY    CHARACTERS.  341 

A  fairy  cottage  with  its  attic  hues, 

A  garden,  where  the  freshest  violets  blow, 
A  sacred  nook,  for  dalliance  with  the  muse, 

Where  flowers  and  statues  breathe,  and  pictures  glow  ; 
Hearts  filled  with  love,  the  classic  thought  that  twine 

And  draw  the  shamrock  forth  to  purer  air ; 
A  mother,  beauteous  in  her  life's  decline, 

And  ever  gladdened  by  their  duteous  care. 
How  blest  from  noise  and  restless  pomp  to  flee, 
And  taste  serene  repose,  sweet  Rosary,  with  thee. 


Having  always  considered  individuals  who  have  at 
tained  distinction  in  the  fields  of  intellect,  as  objects  of 
higher  interest  than  any  modification  of  natural  scenery, 
or  architectural  skill,  I  counted  myself  fortunate  in  being 
able  to  bear  away  personal  recollections  of  so  many, 
especially  of  my  own  sex.  Among  these  were  the  Hon. 
Mrs.  Norton,  Miss  Jane  Porter,  the  Countess  of  Bless- 
ington,  Mrs.  Austin,  Mrs.  Hofland,  Mrs.  Kemble  Butler, 
Miss  Agnes  Strickland,  Miss  Pardoe,  and  Lady  Valsi- 
machi,  formerly  the  consort  of  Bishop  Heber.  Some 
disappointments  I  was  compelled  to  regret,  especially 
my  inability  to  accept  the  pressing  invitation  of  Mrs. 
Opie,  to  visit  her  in  Norfolk,  and  the  absence  of  Mrs. 
Howitt,  in  Germany,  whom  I  had  much  desired  to  meet. 
The  invalid  health  of  Miss  Barrett,  then  just  commenc 
ing  her  splendid  poetical  career,  caused  her  to  seclude 
herself  from  strangers,  and  the  filial  devotion  of  Mary 
Russell  Mitford  was  at  that  time  her  absorbing  occupa- 


342  MISS    MITFOED. 

tion.  The  constant,  cherishing  care,  which  she  exer 
cises  over  an  aged  parent,  of  whom  she  is  the  only 
child,  adds  lustre  to  her  reputation  as  an  author.  For 
years,  she  left  his  side  scarcely  for  an  evening,  and 
received  calls  only  during  those  hours  in  the  afternoon, 
when  he  regularly  took  rest  upon  his  bed.  She  was 
ever  in  attendance  upon  him,  reading  to  him,  cheering 
him  by  the  recital  of  passing  events,  and  pouring  into 
his  spirit  the  fresher  life  of  her  own,  and  doubtless  find 
ing  in  these  holy  duties  their  own  "  exceeding  great 
reward."  Not  long  after  my  return  to  my  native  land, 
she  was  called  to  shed  the  mourner's  tear  over  that 
venerable  parent,  to  whom  she  had  been  as  a  minister 
ing  angel. 

Yet  it  was  my  extraordinary  privilege,  frequently  to 
enjoy  familiar  intercourse  with  Miss  Edgeworth,  whom  I 
should  have  gone  to  Ireland  to  visit,  had  she  not  decided 
to  pass  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  in  London.  To  be 
seated  by  her  fireside,  to  find  her  interested  in  my  little 
concerns,  so  frank,  so  appreciative,  so  confiding,  —  to 
listen  to  her  voice  whose  "  Simple  Susan,"  and  "Barring 
Out,"  had  charmed  my  childish  years,  seemed  at  first  an 
illusion,  but  such  an  one  as  her  admirers  at  home  would 
willingly  purchase,  even  by  the  most  boisterous  voyage 
over  the  ocean  that  divides  them.  Her  conversation, 
like  her  writings,  is  varied,  vivacious,  and  delightful. 
Her  kind  feelings  towards  our  country  are  well  known  ; 
while  forgetfulness  of  self,  and  happiness  in  making  oth 
ers  happy,  are  marked  traits  in  her  character.  Her  per 
son  is  small,  and  delicately  proportioned,  and  her  move- 


MISS    EDGEWORTH.  343 

ments  full  of  animation.  She  was  at  the  house  of  a  love 
ly  sister,  much  younger  than  herself,  whose  ill  health 
called  forth  such  deep  anxiety  and  untiring  attention, 
and  for  every  favorable  symptom  such  fervent  grati 
tude,  as  seemed  to  blend  features  of  maternal  tender 
ness  with  sisterly  affection.  It  is  always  gratifying  to 
know  that  those,  by  whose  superior  intellect  we  are 
charmed  or  enlightened,  have  their  hearts  in  the  right 
place.  Many  such  illustrations  delighted  me  while 
abroad,  in  the  varied  and  beautiful  forms  of  domestic 
love  and  duty. 

Truthful  and  tender  as  thy  pictured  page 

Flows  on  thy  life.     Oh,  it  was  joy  to  me 
Thine  earnest  welcome  to  my  pilgrimage 

And  friendly  intercourse  so  warm  and  free ; 
For  in  my  own  far  land,  both  youth  and  sire, 

Held  willing  captives  of  thy  lore  refined, 
Will  of  thy  features  and  thy  form  inquire, 

And  keep  the  transcript  in  their  loving  mind  ; 
Yea,  merry  children,  who  with  glowing  cheek 

Have  o'er  thy  stories  linger'd  night  and  day, 
Will  lift  the  fervent  eye  to  hear  me  speak 

Of  her  who  held  them  oft  times  from  their  play, 
And  closer  press,  as  if  to  show  a  part 
Of  the  delight  thy  smile  enkindled  in  my  heart. 


WESTMINSTER  HALL. 


WELL  !  one  must  own  this  is  a  goodly  room, 
Of  vast  and  fair  proportions,  where  at  ease, 

The  tallest  sons  of  Anak  might  have  towered, 
Waltzing  or  promenading,  as  they  please,  — 

The  Norman  hunter-king  hath  left  behind 

A  lordly  gift,  to  keep  his  red  elf-locks  in  mind. 

And  here,  they  say,  the  gay  and  fickle  son 

Of  the  brave  Black  Prince  held  a  revel  proud, 

Feasting  ten  thousand  guests.     I  wonder  where 
They  served  or  seated  such  a  mighty  crowd, 

While  with  a  right  good-will  that  scorned  control 

The  huge  sirloin  they  carved,  and  drained  the  wassail- 
bowl. 


Amid  the  royal  train,  methinks,  I  see 

Old  John  of  Gaunt,  whose  dark,  prophetic  frown 

Dwells  on  his  banished  son,  while  mad  with  glee 
Unthinking  Richard  shakes  his  rubied  crown, 

Reckless,  as  when  he  rushed  with  beardless  face 

To  meet  Wat  Tyler's  mob,  where  Walworth  reared  his 
mace. 


WESTMINSTER   HALL.  345 


Ten  thousand  guests  !   Alas,  poor  thoughtless  king  ! 

Mid  all  those  joyous  shouts,  the  roof  that  rent, 
Rose  there  no  vision  of  thy  future  woes  ? 

Usurping  Bolingbroke,  with  stern  intent  ? 
The  crowd,  whose  loud  hosannas  turned  to  hate, 
And  Pomfret-Cas tie's  deeds,  of  dire,  mysterious  fate  ? 


I  cannot  laugh  in  England,  —  I  have  tried, 
But  a  majestic  shadow  seems  to  rise, 

Like  Pallas  lofty,  or  like  Dian  cold, 
And  put  to  flight  my  mirthful  melodies  ; 

And  this  is  well  enough,  since  we  were  made 

Surely  for  nobler  ends,  than  the  light  jester's  trade. 


I  cannot  laugh  in  England,  when  I've  tried, 

Although  there 's  much  to  cheer  both  heart  and  eye  ; 

It  seems  as  if  a  lessoned  child  decried 
Teachers  and  magistrates,  or  lifted  high 

A  loud  guffaw  in  its  grave  mother's  face 

At  some  ill-chosen  hour,  —  a  fearful  want  of  "race. 


Yet  if  I  fail  to  laugh,  I  still  may  trust 

A\  iser  to  grow,  and  bring  some  seeds  away 

To  plant  at  home,  and  yield  a  healthful  fruit 
For  my  young  children,  when  I'm  laid  in  clay, 

And  that 's  a  better  husbandry  than  Mirth, 

Mocking  at  sober  Thought,  may  often  boast  on  earth. 


346  WESTMINSTER    HALL. 

Here  are  the  various  courts  of  Themis'  dome, 
I've  entered  all,  yet  paid  no  lawyer's  fees  ;  — 

High-Chancery,  and  Admiralty  too, 

Queen's  Bench,  Exchequer,  and  the  Common-Pleas, 

And  heard  their  varied  eloquence,  who  wear 

Such  curious  flaxen  wigs,  to  hide  unfrosted  hair. 


And  I  have  seen  them  pass  in  robes  of  state,  — 
Those  noble  Judges  of  this  ancient  clime,  — 

On,  through  this  hall,  by  the  wild  Norman  reared, 
To  ope  their  session  at  the  autumn  prime ; 

While  in  close  ranks  the  assembled  people  rose, 

To  give  them  honor  due,  in  whom  their  rights  repose. 

And  sure,  the  heartfelt  reverence  of  a  land 
Is  justly  paid  to  those,  whose  lore  profound 

Maintains  the  sacred  majesty  of  Law, 

And  throws  a  shield  the  lowliest  home  around, 

Guarding  the  hearth-stone  from  the  robber's  broil, 

And  bringing  shame  to  vice,  and  gain  to  virtuous  toil. 

Westminster  Hall,  which  traces  back  its  antiquity  to 
William  Rufus,  is  one  of  the  largest  apartments  unsup 
ported  by  pillars,  being  270  feet  in  length  and  74  in 
breadth.  History  names  it  as  the  scene  of  one  of  the 
grand  revels  of  the  unfortunate  Richard  Second,  when 
ten  thousand  guests  shared  his  banquet.  It  was  ren 
dered  memorable  to  me  by  a  different,  and  more  majestic 


OPENING   THE    SESSION    OF    THE    COURTS.       347 

pageant,  the  passing  through  it  of  the  twelve  judges  of 
England,  to  open  the  annual  session  of  the  courts.  In 
their  robes  of  state,  and  preceded  by  the  Lord  High 
Chancellor  of  the  realm,  they  walked  onward,  slowly, 
amid  the  acclamations  of  the  people,  and  took  their  seats 
in  their  respective  places  of  jurisdiction.  Their  dignity 
of  bearing,  and  brows  marked  by  profound  thoughts, 
justified  the  respect  manifested  by  the  dense  throng 
assembled  on  the  occasion.  Though  unaccustomed  to 
see  such  pomp  surrounding  the  judiciary  in  my  own 
land,  I  could  not  but  rejoice  at  every  mark  of  reverence 
for  the  authority  of  law,  believing  that  he  who  decries 
even  in  externals  the  sacredness  of  justice,  may  weaken 
the  safeguards  of  his  own  fireside,  or  edge  the  steel  of 
the  assassin. 

The  full-bottomed  wigs  of  the  judges,  and  the  less 
ample  ones  of  the  barristers,  disclosing,  as  they  often 
did,  bright  hair  of  an  opposing  color,  and  smooth 
young  faces,  did  not  fail  to  attract  our  attention.  Being 
taken  into  the  respective  courts,  I  opened  my  republi 
can  ears  wide,  expecting  an  eloquence  commensurate 
with  this  pomp  of  prelude.  But  the  first  cause  that  I 
heard  argued  before  her  Majesty's  criminal  judges, 
happened  to  be  concerning  the  seizure  of  a  quantity  of 
beer,  for  debt ;  and  its  most  elaborate  point  of  juris 
prudence,  whether  the  container,  and  the  thing  con 
tained,  were  comprehended  in  the  same  category,  viz., 
whether  the  casks  were  the  property  of  the  creditor,  or 
of  the  defendant  brewer. 

Several    weeks   afterwards,  we   visited   the    Privy 


348  LORD    BROUGHAM. 

Council  in  Downing-Street.  There  we  saw  Lord  Baron 
Parke,  Judge  Bosanquet,  and  Dr.  Lushington,  and 
one  who  more  particularly  ri vetted  our  gaze,  Lord 
Brougham,  with  his  expressive  Scottish  physiognomy. 
The  clerk  of  the  court  was  young  Keeve,  the  accom 
plished  translator  of  De  Tocqueville,  and  Guizot's  "  Life 
of  Washington." 

Busily  at  his  table  wrote  Lord  Brougham  with  a 
coarse  gray  goose-quill.  A  case  of  compensation  was 
being  argued  by  the  eminent  barrister,  Pendleton,  with 
a  mellifluent  voice,  and  great  quietness  of  manner. 
Birge,  the  distinguished  advocate  of  the  Jamaica  plant 
ers,  spoke  well,  and  others  also.  But  still  busily  wrote 
on  my  Lord  Brougham.  What  mighty  trains  of  thought 
can  thus  absorb  the  intrepid  and  invincible  defender  of 
the  desolate  Queen  Caroline? 

A  document  was  read,  when  suddenly  raising  his 
head,  with  divers  nervous  twitchings  about  the  mouth, 
he  observed,  that  the  word  '"'several,"  which  ought  to 
occur,  was  omitted  ;  and  seeming  to  suspect  some  quib 
ble,  kindled  up,  and  demanded  a  collation  of  instru 
ments  and  manuscripts. 

There,  I  have  heard  him  speak.  A  right,  sharp  voice 
has  he  too.  How  many  things  have  great  men  the 
power  to  think  of  at  once  ?  Pursuing  an  elaborate 
theme,  as  it  would  appear,  yet  listening  so  closely  to  a 
reader,  as  to  detect  a  missing  particle.  I  once  heard 
Dr.  Gallaudet,  the  Principal  of  an  institution  for  the 
deaf  and  dumb,  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  say,  that  he  could 
use  the  manual  alphabet  with  each  hand,  conversing  at 


SEVERITY   OF    WINTER.  349 

the  same  time  with  two  silent  pupils,  yet  that  it  was  an 
intense  mental  effort,  and  not  long  to  be  sustained. 

But  what  was  my  woman's  mind,  which  is  not  able  to 
manage  more  than  one  subject  at  a  time,  busying  itself 
about  on  this  occasion  ?  While  the  observed  of  all  ob 
servers  was  uttering  those  few  words,  he  threw  his  pen 
at  some  distance  from  him  on  the  table.  Could  I  pos 
sibly  become  the  owner  of  that  cast-off  stylus  ?  Could 
I  carry  it  home,  to  America?  Would  not  my  antiquarian 
friends,  who  are  so  rabidly  eager  for  his  signature,  go 
distracted  with  joy  over  the  pen  that  inscribed  it  ? 

I  drew  insensibly  nearer  to  the  spot  where  it  lay.  It 
was  a  miserably  worn-out  pen.  He  will  surely  take  a 
better  one.  Can  I  not  beg  it  of  the  clerk  ?  Can  I  not 
even  lay  my  own  hand  upon  it  ?  A  cupidity,  heretofore 
unknown,  came  over  me.  Might  I  not  thus  imagine 
how  some  of  Mrs.  Fry's  poor  convict  girls  felt,  when 
they  gloated  over  their  mistresses  laces,  or  other  con 
traband  articles  ? 

But  in  a  shorter  time  than  it  has  taken  to  arrest 
these  flying  thoughts,  yes,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
he  seized  that  coveted  old  goose-quill,  and  drove  it 
faster  than  ever.  It  is  all  over.  My  Lord  Brougham's 
pen  will  never  travel  with  me  to  the  United  States.  I 
felt  a  twinge  of  disappointment,  more  however  for  my 
autograph-hunting  friends,  than  for  myself.  Methought, 
he  did  not  look  amiable,  as  he  sate  forcing  that  pen  over 
the  paper.  Whereupon  I  invidiously  remembered  the 
circumstance  of  his  once  bringing  out  a  new  coach  in 
London,  with  simply  the  letter  B  on  its  pannels,  and 


350  ORATORIO. 

how  a  punster  had  remarked,  **  it  was  a  pity  to  see  so 
fine  an  equipage  with  a  bee  outside,  and  a  wasp  within." 
The  room  devoted  to  the  Privy-Councils  is  beauti 
fully  finished  with  English  Oak.  We  could  not  but 
recollect  that  here  Victoria  stood  in  her  innocent  girl 
hood,  to  take  the  formidable  oaths  of  office,  at  the  death 
of  William  IV.,  and  almost  fancied  that  we  heard  the 
trumpet-call  of  the  poet, 

"  Oh  maiden  heir  of  kings  ! 
A  king  hath  left  his  place.'1 

Almost  countless  were  the  objects  of  interest,  with 
which  my  English  friends  sought  to  gratify  my  taste, 
and  employ  every  interval  of  leisure.  Schools,  lectures, 
scientific  and  benevolent  institutions,  parks,  palaces, 
museums,  zoological  gardens,  docks,  dioramas,  bazaars, 
galleries  of  pictures  and  sculptures,  all  were  exhibited 
and  explained  with  a  kindness  that  never  slumbered. 

Music  lent  her  enchantments  in  the  form  of  a  variety 
of  concerts.  I  wish  I  were  able  to  give  the  most  distant 
idea  of  the  emotions  created  by  some  of  the  grand  ora 
torios  at  Exeter-Hall.  In  "Judas  Macabreus"  six 
hundred  performers,  with  voice  and  instrument,  gave 
force  to  the  glorious  conceptions  of  Handel.  At  first 
the  press  of  sound  was  painful,  but  then,  a  great  and 
majestic  delight  pervaded  the  whole  being.  An  audi 
ence,  which  was  computed  at  4,000  persons,  listened  in 
rapt  silence;  and  the  stream  of  carriages,  pressing 
homeward  under  the  darkness  of  night,  through  a  rather 


351 


narrow  entrance,  required  the  exertions  of  the  police, 
to  prevent  the  lock  of  wheels,  and  other  accidents. 

Catlin's  large  collection  of  paintings  and  curiosities 
of  our  own  red  Indians,  at  Egyptian  Hall,  excited  much 
attention  from  the  English  public.  He  occasionally  ex 
hibited  their  customs  by  moving  groups  and  tableaux 
vivants,  having  trained  persons  painted  and  dressed  in 
the  costume  of  the  different  tribes,  among  whom  it  was 
not  difficult  to  detect  his  own  leading  form  and  strong 
physiognomy.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  the  buffalo 
dance  filled  an  interlude,  with  the  most  horrible  tramp 
ing,  and  contortions  of  the  agile  personages  enveloped 
in  the  skin  of  that  ungainly  animal.  A  bright  little 
girl,  who  had  been  greatly  interested  in  a  bridal  scene 
by  those  dark-browed  actors,  whom  she  had  been  in 
formed  were  Americans,  glancing  furtively  at  me,  said, 
"  Why,  mamma,  look  !  Mrs.  Sigourney  is  white." 

At  the  Coliseum,  being  enclosed  in  a  small  room, 
we  were  raised  by  steam  to  an  elevation  of  eighty  feet, 
where,  standing  apparently  on  a  circular  roof,  stretched 
beneath  us  the  panorama  of  the  mighty  city,  with  its 
domes,  towers,  spires,  palaces,  winding  river,  and 
thread-like  bridges.  It  would  seem  that  the  view  was 
taken  from  the  summit  of  St.  Paul's,  and  the  illusion 
is  perfect.  For  a  moment  we  were  reminded  of  his 
necromancy  who,  from  a  pinnacle  of  the  temple,  spread 
out  before  Pure  Eyes,  all  the  "  kingdoms  of  the  world 
and  the  glory  of  them." 

The  wonderful  exhibition  of  embroidery  by  Miss 
Linwood,  in  Leicester-Square,  is  well  worthy  of  atten- 


352  MISS  LIN  WOOD'S  EMBROIDERY. 

tion,  even  from  those  who  have  visited  the  unparalleled 
establishment  of  the  Gobelines  at  Paris.  There  you 
are  moved  with  pity  for  the  pale  operatives,  who  with 
the  glowing  patterns  behind  them,  exhaust  both  health 
and  life  in  their  joyless  imitations.  Here,  the  ex- 
quisiteness  of  the  tissues  are  in  accordance  with  the 
native  taste  and  sphere  of  my  own  sex,  wrought  out  by 
the  instrument  whose  use  was  divinely  taught  them  in 
Paradise,  and  of  which  they  ought  never  to  be  ashamed. 

The  force  and  delicate  mingling  of  light  and  shade, 
by  Miss  Linwood,  both  in  figures,  landscape,  and  histor 
ical  design,  and  the  felicity  with  which  she  has  copied 
the  ancient  masters,  are  truly  remarkable.  Her  collection 
consists  of  more  than  sixty  pieces,  among  which  the 
"  Salvator  Mundi,"  from  Carlo  Dolci,  "  Jepthah's  Rash 
Vow,"  from  Opie,  and  the  "  Judgment  upon  Cain,"  quite 
a  large  picture,  are  distinguished  by  their  power  and 
beauty.  She  entered  this  elegant  department  of  needle 
work,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  pursued  it  with  un- 
weared  industry,  until  she  had  completed  her  78th  year. 
She  has  led  a  life  of  great  respectability,  and  still  sur 
vives,  having  nearly  reached  fourscore  years  and  ten. 

Another  exhibition  of  female  genius  and  perseverance 
is  the  splendid  collection  of  wax  figures,  by  Madame 
Tussaud,  in  Portman-Square.  Here  are  groups  of  the 
striking,  or  illustrious  characters  of  various  lands,  many 
of  them  actual  likenesses,  modelled  from  life,  by  this 
accomplished  woman.  Their  costumes  are  in  accord 
ance  with  their  rank,  and  the  age  in  which  they  lived ; 
and  in  some  of  the  more  modern  figures,  the  deception 


MADAME   TUSSAUD'S    WAXWORK.  353 

is  heightened  by  the  effect  of  internal  machinery. 
Fiesche  rolls  his  eyes  fiercely  ;  Charlotte  Cord  ay  seems 
to  breathe  while  she  slumbers ;  Cobbett,  in  his  usual  gray 
dress,  and  slouched  hat,  sitting  on  a  bench,  turns  his 
head  as  if  regarding  the  groups  around.  Some  ladies, 
about  to  take  a  seat  near  him,  carefully  left  room  so  as 
not  to  incommode  the  interested  observer.  Henry  the 
Eighth,  with  his  coarse,  bloated  form,  spreads  out  amid 
his  six  wives;  the  two  repudiated  and  two  decapitated 
ones  looking  as  serene  as  the  others.  Mary,  Queen 
of  Scots,  is  receiving  a  harsh  lecture  from  the  im- 
courtly  John  Knox.  Cardinal  Wolsey  towers  in  his 
unfallen  pride.  Voltaire  wears  his  sardonic  smile,  and 
Napoleon  is  stretched  mournfully  upon  the  camp-bed, 
where  death  found  him  at  St.  Helena.  The  stiffness 
and  angularity  of  limb  which  of  old  used  to  attend  such 
representations,  do  not  exist  here,  and  it  requires  no 
great  effort  of  imagination  to  think  some  of  the  forms 
are  instinct  with  life. 

There  is  an  apartment  devoted  to  terrific  representa 
tions,  and  called  "  The  Chamber  of  Horrors,"  to  which, 
of  course,  the  entrance  is  optional.  Some  of  these  are 
of  the  victims  who  perished  by  the  guillotine  during 
the  revolution,  and  whose  likenesses  Madame  Tussaud 
took  immediately  after  their  death,  at  the  command  of 
the  National  Assembly.  Her  reminiscences  of  France, 
in  its  stormiest  period,  are  incorporated  with  her  own 
Memoir,  a  recently  published  volume,  where  she  is 
represented  of  highly  respectable  origin,  education,  and 
character.  Its  perusal  will  add  to  the  interest  with 
23 


DO.TTICH    COLLEGE. 


which  this  exhibition,  and  its  Tenerable  artist,  now 
more  than  eighty  years  of  age,  are  visited  by  the 
stranger  in  London. 

I  would  fain,  were  it  in  my  power,  to  do  justice  to 
such  subjects,  describe  some  of  the  curiosities,  at  the 
Polytechnic  Institution,  or  the  pictures  in  the  National 
Gallery,  and  at  Dulwich  College.  At  the  latter  place 
are  several  fine  Morillos,  and,  also,  a  provision  of  be 
nevolence  by  its  founder,  where  six  poor  men  and 
women  ,  having  past  the  age  of  sixty,  are  supported 
in  comfort  and  respectability.  Will  not  this  charity 
come  up  in  blessed  remembrance,  when  the  tints  of 
the  pencil  are  faded  and  forgotten  ? 

Saw,  at  50  Pall-Mall,  a  remarkable  collection  of 
pictures  belonging  to  Mr.  Vernon,  among  which  we 
particularly  designated  "  The  Broken  Heart  ;  "  "  Too 
Late  at  the  Well  ;  "  "  The  New  Scholar,"  by  Mulready  ; 
and  "Uncle  Toby  and  Widow  Wadman,"  by  Leslie. 
But  it  is  a  losing  office  to  delineate  with  the  pen  any 
exquisite  painting.  The  instrument  and  instrumental 
ities  are  alike  inadequate. 

What  then  shall  I  say  of  the  British  Museum,  that 
unequalled  repository  of  the  wonders  of  every  clime, 
and  the  munificence  of  its  own  ?  Nothing  at  all. 

This  omnium  gatherum  of  an  article  is  already  too 
full.  It  is  time  to  release  both  myself  and  my  readers. 


Kl  NNIMKUK. 


T  WAS  beautiful,  in  English  skies, 

That  changeful  April  day, 
When  beams  and  clouds  each  other  chased, 

Like  tireless  imps  at  play, 
And  father  Thames  went  rolling  on, 

In  vernal  wealth  and  pride, 
As  in  our  slender  boat  we  swept 

Across  his  crystal  tide. 


And  then,  within  a  tasteful  cot, 

The  pictured  wall  we  tnu ••  •<!, 
With  relics  of  the  feudal  times, 

And  quaint  escutcheons  graced 
Of  fearless  knights,  who  bravely  won 

For  this  sequestered  spot 
A  name  from  wondering  History's  hand, 

That  Death  alone  can  blot. 


356  RUNNIMEDE. 

Methought  a  dim  and  slumbrous  veil 

Enwrapt  the  glowing  scene, 
And  strangely  stole  our  wearied  eyes, 

And  each  bright  trace  between, 
And  at  our  side,  behold  !  a  king 

His  thronging  minions  met, 
Arrayed  in  all  the  boasted  power 

Of  high  Plantagenet. 


See  !  see  !  his  sceptered  hand  is  raised 

To  shade  a  haggard  brow, 
As  if  constrained  to  do  a  deed 

His  pride  would  disallow. 
"What  now,  false  John !  what  troubleth  thee 

Finds  not  thine  art  some  way 
To  blind  or  gull  the  vassal  train, 

And  hold  thy  tyrant  sway  ? 


He  falters  still,  with  daunted  eye 

Turned  toward  those  barons  bold, 
Whose  hands  are  grappling  to  their  swords 

With  firm  indignant  hold  ; 
The  die  is  cast ;  he  bows  him  down 

Before  those  steel-girt  men, 
And  Magna  Charta  springs  to  life 

Beneath  his  trembling  pen. 


RUNNIMEDE.  357 

His  "white  lip  to  a  smile  is  wreathed, 

As  their  exulting  shout 
From  'neath  the  broad,  embowering  trees 

Upon  the  gale  swells  out ; 
Yet  still  his  cowering  glance  is  bent 

On  Thames'  translucent  tide, 
As  if  some  sharp  and  bitter  pang 

lie  from  the  throng  would  hide. 


Know  ye  what  visiteth  his  soul, 

AVhen  midnight's  heavy  hand 
Doth  crush  the  emmet  cares  of  day, 

And  wield  reflection's  wand  ? 
Forth  stalks  a  broken-hearted  sire, 

"Wrapt  in  the  grave-robe  drear, 
And  close  around  his  ingrate  heart 

Doth  cling  the  ice  of  fear. 


Know  ye  what  sounds  are  in  his  ear, 

When  wrathful  tempests  roll ; 
When  heaven-commissioned  lightnings  search, 

And  thunders  try  the  soul  ? 
Above  their  blast  young  Arthur's  shriek 

Doth  make  the  murderer  quake, 
As  if  anew  the  guiltless  blood 

From  Rouen's  prison  spake. 


358  RUNNIMEDE. 

Away,  away,  ye  sombre  thoughts  ! 

Avaunt,  ye  spectres  drear  ! 
Too  long  your  sable  wing  ye  spread 

In  scenes  to  memory  dear  :  — 
So,  quick  they  vanished  all  away, 

Like  visioned  hosts  of  care, 
As  out  on  the  green  sward  we  went, 

To  breathe  the  balmy  air. 


Then  from  its  home,  in  English  soil, 

A  daisy's  root  I  drew, 
Amid  whose  moistened  crown  of  leaves 

A  healthful  bud  crept  through, 
And  whispered  in  its  infant  ear 

That  it  should  cross  the  sea, 
A  cherished  emigrant,  and  share 

A  western  home  with  me. 


Methought  it  shrank,  at  first,  and  paled  ; 

But  when  on  ocean's  tide 
Strong  waves  and  awful  icebergs  frowned, 

And  manly  courage  died, 
It  calmly  reared  a  crested  head, 

And  smiled  amid  the  storm, 
As  if  old  Magna  Charta's  soul 

Inspired  its  fragile  form. 


RUNNIMEDE. 


359 


So,  where  within  my  garden-plat 

I  sow  the  choicest  seed, 
Amid  my  favorite  shrubs  I  placed 

The  plant  from  Runnimede, 
And  know  not  why  it  may  not  draw 

Sweet  nutriment,  the  same 
As  when  within  that  noble  clime 

From  whence  our  fathers  came. 


Here  's  liberty  enough  for  all, 

If  they  but  use  it  well, 
And  Magna  Charta's  spirit  lives 

In  even  the  lowliest  cell, 
And  the  simplest  daisy  may  unfold, 

From  scorn  and  danger  freed :  — 
So  make  yourself  at  home,  my  friend, 

My  flower  of  Runnimede. 


The  daisy  of  this  poem,  transplanted  from  the  spot 
where  Magna  Charta  was  signed,  accompanied  me 
home.  In  my  lonely  state-room,  amid  the  surging  of 
the  angry  ocean,  at  the  first  dawn  of  every  morning,  it 
looked  upon  me  with  its  honest  face.  It  was  of  their 
happy  genus  who  mind  no  trifles,  and  make  the  best 
of  every  thing.  So  it  surmounted  the  voyage,  when 
rarer  plants  perished.  I  gave  it  a  good  place  in  my 
garden,  and  it  never  seemed  to  know  but  what  it  was 
at  home.  There  it  flourished  vigorously,  for  two  years, 


360  ST.   MARY    OVERT. 

and  as  its  reputation  extended,  slips  were  taken  from 
it  for  antiquarian  friends.  But  then,  through  the 
mistake  of  a  man  employed  about  the  grounds,  this 
cradling  from  the  birthplace  of  English  liberty,  was 
uprooted  and  trundled  away  among  noteless  weeds. 

Runnimede,  as  a  locality,  owes  its  interest  to  the 
past.  A  graceful  cottage  has  been  erected  there  by 
the  proprietor  of  that  consecrated  ground,  who  bears 
the  name  of  Harcourt.  Relics  of  the  olden  time  are 
garnered  therein,  and  the  walls  of  one  of  the  apart 
ments  are  decorated  by  the  coats  of  arms  of  all  those 
barons  who  awed  King  John  into  the  signature  so 
sacred  in  the  annals  of  English  history. 

Visited,  about  the  same  time,  the  ancient  and  beau 
tiful  church  of  St.  Saviour,  in  the  borough  of  South- 
wark,  formerly  called  St.  Mary  Overy.  It  has  recently 
been  repaired  at  great  expense,  —  the  older  portions 
bearing  the  date  of  1106.  Laid  our  hands  on  the 
coarse  table  in  the  vaulted  council  chamber,  the  cele 
brated  Lady-Chapel  of  old,  where  Bonner  sate  in  state, 
sentencing  the  martyr-victims.  Among  the  numerous 
tombs,  where  it  was  pleasant  to  pause  and  meditate, 
was  that  of  Bishop  Launcelot  Andrews.  There  is, 
also,  an  imposing  monument  to  the  poet  Gower,  erected 
in  1400,  overloaded  with  quaint  emblematic  sculpture, 
and  kept  in  good  preservation  by  Earl  Gower,  a  de 
scendant  of  the  bard,  who  shares  with  Chaucer  the 
honored  epithet  of  "  father  of  English  verse." 

Saw  the  immense  docks,  and  thronging  shipping  in 
the  Thames,  and  passed  through  White-Chapel  and 


HEALTHFUL    FAMILIKS.  361 

some  of  those  notorious  parts  of  London,  where  one 
shrinks  at  the  vices  by  which  poor  human  nature  is 
held  in  bondage.  Admired,  anew,  the  symmetry  of 
the  Monument ;  the  adaptation  of  the  Bank  of  Eng 
land  to  its  tenacious  purposes,  and  the  splendid  mansion 
of  my  Lord  Mayor.  Stopped  at  St.  Mary's,  Wool 
wich, —  the  church  where  the  voice  of  the  devout  John 
Newton  invited  sinners  to  repentance,  and  heard  the 
weekly  morning  lecture,  delivered  there  by  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Dale,  whose  appearance  and  elocution  were  ex 
ceedingly  pleasing,  and  who  has  given  evidence  of 
poetical  genius,  as  well  a§  of  a  spirit  of  piety. 

Indebted  for  an  exploration  of  most  of  the  last- 
named  places,  to  the  politeness  of  Mrs.  Oldfield,  at 
whose  house,  at  Champion  Hill,  I  saw  one  of  the  most 
interesting  pictures,  a  family  of  twelve  beautiful  and 
highly  educated  children,  the  youngest  of  whom  had 
surpassed  early  childhood,  surrounding  happy  and  dig 
nified  parents,  all  fondly  attached  to  each  other,  and 
mingling  their  voices  in  perfect  harmony  with  the 
music  of  the  harp  and  piano. 

In  the  rearing  of  large  and  healthful  families,  me- 
thought  old  Albion  far  excelled  her  ambitious  daughter 
in  the  "\Yest.  Climate  may  have  something  to  do  with 
their  physical  vigor,  but  habit  still  more.  The  little 
ones  breathe  daily  the  open  air.  Their  muscles  are 
educated.  They  are  simply  fed  on  "  food  convenient 
for  them."  Their  own  dinner  is  usually  at  twelve,  and 
their  appetites  not  excited  by  exposure  to  a  table  of 
varied  viands,  or  rich  condiments,  which  enervate  adult 


362  BOKOUGH-ROAD    SCHOOL. 

strength.  Subordination,  the  privilege  of  childhood,  is 
better  secured  to  them.  Their  little  minds  are  not 
fevered  with  doubt  whether  they  are  to  rule  or  be  ruled. 
The  sentiment  of  respect,  constantly  cherished  within 
them,  is  a  sedative  principle,  and  contributes  to  serenity. 

The  parents,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  seem 
less  exhausted  than  we ;  better  able  to  meet  the  trials 
involved  in  their  position,  and  not  too  busy  to  enjoy 
that  domestic  happiness  which  is  their  natural  solace. 

The  industrial  schools  of  England  are  on  a  rational 
plan,  very  thoroughly  carried  out.  The  useful  and 
nice  performances  of  the  nSedle,  to  which  those  girls 
are  gradually  inured,  who  at  first  knew  not  on  which 
finger  to  place  the  thimble,  are  truly  surprising.  At 
the  Borough-Road  School,  four  hundred  female  pupils 
exhibited  specimens  of  needlework,  of  different  grades 
of  excellence,  some  of  which,  arranged  in  cases,  we 
purchased,  to  amaze  the  little  ones  at  home.  They 
also  read  with  propriety,  and  sustained  several  recita 
tions. 

In  another  portion  of  the  building,  six  hundred  boys, 
from  five  to  thirteen,  were  examined  in  arithmetic,  and 
some  of  the  more  distinguished,  solved  mathematical 
problems.  They  all  executed  calisthenic  evolutions  in 
a  very  rapid  and  systematic  manner ;  sang  in  unison 
scientifically,  and  exhibited  drawings  of  architectural 
designs,  done  with  great  accuracy.  Precision  and  obe 
dience  strongly  characterized  their  movements,  as  if  all 
those  one  thousand  minds  were  formed  on  the  same 
model. 


FREE    SCHOOLS    OF   BOSTON.  3G3 

One  thousand  minds !  thus  rescued  from  ignorance, 
thus  protected  from  vice.  "What  a  noble  investment. 
Could  any  national  bank  yield  a  richer  dividend  ? 

Such  institutions  cheat  the  prisons  and  the  hangman. 
They  throw  a  better  guard  round  the  liberties  of  a  peo 
ple  than  the  pomp  of  armies. 

Establishments  of  the  same  ^nature,  though  varied 
by  our  different  forms  of  government,  are  springing  up 
in  my  own  land.  I  bless  God  for  them.  Especially 
do  the  Free  Schools  of  Boston  illustrate  a  system  both 
simple  and  sublime,  diffusing  a  high  degree  of  intelli 
gence  among  the  lower  classes,  without  being  confined 
to  them,  and  unfolding  the  secret  of  that  predominance 
of  the  "  Athens  of  New  England,"  and  the  "  Old  Bay 
State,"  which  they  have  so  long  and  so  nobly  sus 
tained. 


CLIFTON. 

FAREWELL  to  London  !  Mournfully  would  these 
words  be  spoken,  were  there  no  hope  of  revisiting  it. 
On  the  time-worn  turrets  of  that  Abbey  where  sleep 
the  mighty  dead ;  on  the  broad  and  breezy  parks  ;  on 
the  fair  mansions  of  friends,  I  looked,  and  said,  men 
tally,  —  not  for  the  last  time  :  no,  if  it  please  God,  not 
for  the  last  time. 

Smiles  and  tears  were  contending  on  the  face  of  an 
April  morning,  as  we  took  our  departure.  Much  fine 
scenery  was  admired  during  our  journey  of  more  than 
a  hundred  miles,  through  a  variegated  country.  Bath, 
with  its  noble  buildings,  drawn  from  its  own  rich 
quarry  of  cream-colored  stone,  made  an  elegant  ap 
pearance. 

Bristol,  and  its  lofty  cathedral,  pointing  back  to  mo 
nastic  times  and  to  the  usurper  Stephen,  and,  also,  the 
beautiful  Church  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  attracted  our 
admiration.  Yet  neither  these  imposing  objects,  nor 
its  resemblance  to  ancient  Rome,  by  being  seated  on 
seven  hills,  so  strongly  impressed  us  as  the  recollec- 


MRS.    HANNAH    MORE.  365> 

tion  that  it  bad  given  birth  to  him  who  "  wove  of  Tha~ 
laba,  tlje  wild  and  wondrous  song." 

Still  more  strongly  were  we  impressed,  at  Clifton, 
by  the  sight  of  the  mansion  where  Hannah  More 
closed  her  venerable  years.  Almost  as  a  pioneer  for 
her  sex,  she  entered  the  field  of  intellectual  labor, 
warning  them  to  forsake  frivolity  of  pursuit,,  and  exert, 
in  their  own  proper  sphere,  their  latent  power  to  im 
prove  and  elevate  society.  With  a  versatility  equalled 
only  by  her  persevering  industry,  she  adapted  the  ru 
diments  of  moral  truth  to  the  comprehension  of  the 
collier,  the  fanner's  boy,  and  the  orange-girl  ;  marked 
out  the  map  of  life  for  a  princess  ;  or  depicted  in  the 
heights  of  his  sublime  piety,  the  "  very  chiefest  of  the 
apostles."  An  u  upright  and  clarified  common  sense  " 
guided  her  through  daily  and  difficult  duties,  and  in  the 
words  of  her  biographer,  "  having  wings  upon  her 
shoulders,  wherewith  she  might  have  soared,  had  it 
pleased  her,  she  yet  chose  to  combat  on  the  same 
ground  with  ignorance,  and  prejudice,  and  folly." 
Her  writings,  at  their  earliest  issue  from  the  press, 
were  welcomed  and  circulated  in  America,  and  she 
testified  for  its  inhabitants  a  kindness  which  increased 
with  her  advancing  years.  Indeed,  friendly  feelings 
towards  our  country  seemed  prevalent  among  all  with 
whom  we  associated  in  Great  Britain.  Symptoms  of 
disaffection  or  hostility  between  the  nations  were  dep 
recated  by  the  wisest  and  best,  as  unnatural,  inexpe 
dient,  and  unchristian.  It  was  freely  acknowledged 
that  whatever  promoted  amity  between  two  nations, 


366  SPIRIT    OF   AMITY. 

united  by  the  ties  of  an  active  commerce,  common  lan 
guage,  and  kindred  origin,  was  highly  desirable.  And 
to  us,  while  strangers  and  sojourners  in  that  foreign 
land,  it  was  cheering  to  find  such  numbers  ready  to 
respond  to  the  words  of  that  remarkable  writer,  Car- 
lyle,  "  rejoicing  greatly  in  the  bridging  of  oceans,  and 
in  the  near  and  nearer  approach,  which  effectuates 
itself  in  these  years,  between  the  Englands,  Old  and 
New,  —  the  strapping  daughter,  and  the  honest  old 
parent,  glad  and  proud  to  see  such  offspring." 

The  mother  and  daughter!  Ought  they  not  to 
dwell  together  in  unity,  believing,  as  they  do,  in  "  one 
Lord,  one  faith,  one  baptism?"  Let  every  traveller 
labor  to  that  end  ;  and  though  the  lines  that  he  traces 
be  as  slight  and  soon  effaced  as  the  spider's  web,  let 
him  throw  them  forth  for  good,  and  not  for  evil. 

Clifton,  with  its  bold,  rocky  scenery,  is  after  my  own 
heart.  There,  at  the  base  of  beetling  cliffs,  and  through 
overhanging  defiles,  the  Avon,  which  in  so  many  other 
places  glides  with  a  serene  classic  flow,  rushes  in  with 
tides  of  thirty-five  feet.  We  saw  many  elegant  man 
sions  in  commanding  situations,  and  a  suspension-bridge 
in  progress,  where  workmen  were  crossing  by  rope 
and  basket  at  a  tremendously  dizzy  height. 

Spot,  where  the  sick  recover,  and  the  well 
Delighted  roam,  I  bear  thee  on  my  heart, 
In  all  thy  portraiture  of  cliff  and  shade, 
And  the  wild-footed  Avon  rushing  in, 


CLIFTON.  3C7 

With  Ocean's  kingly  message. 

Here  we  stand, 

To  take  our  last  farewell  of  England's  shore  ;  — 
And  mid  the  graceful  domes  that  smile  serene 
Through  their  embowering  shades,  recognize  one, 
Where  she,  who  gave  to  Barley- Wood  its  fame, 
Breathed  her  last  breath.  'T  is  meet  that  she  should  be 
Remembered  by  that  sex,  whom  long  she  strove 
In  their  own  sheltered  sphere  to  elevate, 
And  rouse  to  higher  aims  than  Fashion  gives. 
Methinks  I  see  her  mid  yon  parlor  nook, 
In  arm-chair  seated,  calm  in  reverend  age, 
While  that  benevolence,  which  prompted  toils 
For  high  and  low,  precepts  for  royal  ears, 
And  horn-book  teachings  for  the  cottage  child 
And  shepherd-boy,  still  brightens  in  her  eye,  — 
Auspicious  image  for  this  parting  hour. 

I  give  thee  thanks,  Old  England  !  full  of  years, 
Yet  passing  fair.     Thy  castles  ivy-crowned, 
Thy  vast  cathedrals,  where  old  Time  doth  pause, 
Like  an  o'erspent  destroyer,  and  lie  down, 
Feigning  to  sleep,  and  let  their  glory  pass,  — 
Thy  mist-encircled  hills,  thy  peaceful  lakes, 
Opening  their  bosoms  mid  the  velvet  meads, 
Thy  verdant  hedges  with  their  tufted  bloom, 
Thy  cottage  children,  ruddy  as  the  flowers 
That  make  their  thatch-roofed  homes  so  beautiful,  — 
But  more  than  all,  those  mighty  minds  that  leave 
A  lasting  footprint  on  the  sands  of  time,  — 


368  CLIFTON. 

These  well  repay  me  to  have  dared  the  deep, 
That  I  might  look  upon  them. 

So  farewell ! 

I  give  thee  thanks  for  all  thy  kindly  words, 
And  deeds  of  hospitality  to  me, 
A  simple  stranger.     Thou  art  wonderful, 
With  thy  few  leagues  of  billow-beaten  rock, 
Lifting  thy  trident  o'er  the  farthest  seas, 
And  making  to  thyself  in  every  zone 
Some  tributary.     Thou,  whose  power  hath  struck 
The  rusted  links  from  drooping  Afric's  neck, 
And  bade  thy  winged  ships  in  utmost  seas 
Be  strong  to  rescue  all  her  kidnapped  race, 
Bend  the  same  eagle  eye  and  lion  heart 
To  mercy's  work  beneath  thine  Indian  skies, 
And  in  the  bowels  of  thine  own  dark  mines, 
And  where  the  thunder  of  the  loom  is  fed 
By  childhood's  misery,  and  where  the  moan 
Of  him,  who  fain  would  labor  if  he  might, 
Swells  into  madness  for  his  famished  babes,  — 
Bow  down  thy  coronet  and  search  for  them, 
Healing  their  ailments  with  an  angel's  zeal  ; 
Till  all,  who  own  thy  sceptre's  sway,  be  known 
By  the  free  smile  upon  their  open  brow, 
And  on  their  fervent  lip  a  Christian's  praise. 

And  now,  farewell,  Old  England, 

I  should  grieve 

Much  at  the  thought  to  see  thy  face  no  more, 
But  that  my  beckoning  home  doth  seem  so  near 


CLIFTON.  369 

In  vista  o'er  the  wave,  that  its  warm  breath 
Quickeneth  my  spirit  to  a  dream  of  joy. 

Peace  be  within  thy  walls,  Ancestral  Clime ! 
And  in  thy  palaces,  and  on  thy  towers, 
Prosperity.     And  may  no  war-cloud  rise 
'Tween  thee  and  the  young  country  of  my  birth, 
Vine  of  thy  planting,  in  the  western  wild, 
Where  red  men  roamed. 

Oh !  lift  no  sword  again, 

Mother  and  Daughter !    Shed  no  more  the  blood 
That  from  one  kindred  fountain  fills  your  veins. 
Show  the  poor  heathen,  in  earth's  darkest  place, 
The  meaning  of  our  faith  by  its  sweet  deeds 
Of  hope  and  charity. 

So  may  ye  stand, 

Each  on  her  pedestal  that  breasts  the  surge, 
Until  the  strong  archangel,  with  his  foot 
On  sea  and  land,  shall  toll  the  knell  of  time. 


24 


ICEBERGS. 


A  SAIL  of  four  hours  brought  us  from  Clifton  to  our 
steam-ship,  The  Great  Western,  which  awaited  us  in 
the  deeper  waters.  She  took  us  under  her  protection, 
during  a  great  rain,  and  spread  for  us  all  the  comforts 
and  accommodations  which  those  palaces  of  the  wave 
know  so  well  how  to  supply. 

High  head-winds,  and  grand,  bold,  violet-robed  surges, 
now  and  then  tossing  up  crescent-shaped  coronets  of 
green  or  white,  attended  the  earlier  part  of  our  voyage. 
Forty  passengers  chose  various  modes  of  amusement,  or 
employment,  mostly  pursued  with  inertness,  or  ending 
in  sleep,  the  chief  resource.  Four  times  in  twenty-four 
hours,  those  who  were  thus  inclined,  heeded  the  sum 
mons  to  a  luxuriously  furnished  board. 

I  am  led  to  believe  that  a  certain  regimen  may  be 
pursued  to  repel,  or  at  least  to  modify  sea-sickness. 
One  of  its  principal  elements  must  be  an  energy  of  will, 
a  determination  not  to  yield  to  the  pitiless  monster. 
Cheerful  society,  light  reading,  walking  much  in  the 
open  air  upon  deck,  when  the  weather  permits,  and 
overcoming  the  repulsion  at  the  sight  of  food,  by  brave 


SEA-SICKNESS.  371 

and  regular  appearance  at  the  table,  are  a  part  of  the 
prescribed  system.  If  occasionally  prostrated,  or  beaten 
off  the  ground,  it  is  well  to  return  to  the  charge  with  an 
invincible  courage.  I  have  some  confidence  in  this 
course.  At  all  events,  my  own  sad  experience  on  the 
outward  voyage  was  so  slightly  repeated,  that  I  gained 
the  envied  appellation  of  a  "good  sailor." 

Pleasant  society  we  found  among  all  on  board,  though 
my  own  more  immediate  circle  was  composed  of  Mr. 
Bates,  the  celebrated  banker  from  London,  with  his 
lady,  both  natives  of  New  England ;  Miss  Jaudon,  of 
Philadelphia ;  Rev.  Dr.  Wayland,  President  of  Brown 
University;  Hon.  Isaac  Davis,  of  Worcester;  and  Sir 
Joseph  De  Courcey  Laffan,  a  baronet  of  Irish  extraction, 
who  having  explored  the  Eastern  Continents,  proposed, 
by  visiting  America,  to  "  put  a  girdle  round  the  globe." 
I  mention  these  names  thus  particularly,  because  com 
munity  in  danger  was  soon  to  lay  the  foundation  of  a 
more  lasting  remembrance,  and  a  deeper  trust  in  the 
One  Almighty  Friend. 

The  morning  of  Sunday,  April  18th,  was  serene  and 
cold.  Walking  on  the  deck,  before  breakfast,  I  could 
not  but  imagine  that  I  detected  the  latent  chill  of  ice 
in  the  atmosphere ;  but  the  apprehension  was  not  ad 
mitted  by  those  who  had  more  knowledge  of  those 
watery  regions  than  myself.  Our  noble  ship,  The  Great 
Western,  vigorously  pursued  her  way,  and  the  deep, 
slightly  agitated  and  strongly  colored,  was  intensely 
beautiful. 

We  had  divine  worship  in  the  saloon,  and  the  dead- 


372      FIRST  APPEARANCE  OF  ICEBERGS. 

lights,  which  had  been  in  for  nearly  a  week,  were  re 
moved.  The  service  was  read  by  Captain  Hoskins,  and 
the  Rev.  President  Wayland  gave  an  impressive  dis 
course  on  the  right  education  for  eternity,  from  the 
passage,  "Now  see  we  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  then 
face  to  face." 

At  seven  we  went  on  deck  to  see  a  most  glorious 
sunset.  The  king  of  day,  robed  in  surpassing  splendor, 
took  his  farewell  of  the  last  Sabbath  that  we  were  to 
spend  at  sea.  While  we  were  gazing  with  delight,  a 
huge  dark  mass  arose  exactly  in  the  brilliant  track  of 
the  departed  orb.  It  was  pronounced  by  the  captain  to 
be  an  iceberg,  three  quarters  of  a  mile  in  length,  and 
its  most  prominent  points  one  hundred  feet  high.  Of 
course  its  entire  altitude  was  four  hundred  feet,  as  only 
one  third  of  the  ice  mountains  appear  above  the  sur 
face.  It  presented  an  irregular  outline,  towering  up 
into  sharp  and  broken  crags,  and  at  a  distance  resembled 
the  black  hulks  of  several  enormous  men-of-war,  lashed 
together.  Three  others  of  smaller  dimensions  soon  came 
on  in  its  train,  like  a  fleet  following  the  admiral.  We 
were  then  in  north  latitude  43°,  and  in  longitude  48° 
40".  We  literally  shivered  with  cold ;  for  on  the  ap 
proach  of  these  ambassadors  from  the  frigid  zone,  the 
thermometer  suddenly  sank  below  the  freezing  point, 
leaving  the  temperature  of  the  water  25°,  and  of  the 
atmosphere  28°. 

On  this  strange  and  appalling  scene  the  stars  looked 
out,  one  after  another,  with  their  calm,  pure  eyes.  All 
at  once  a  glare  of  splendor  burst  forth,  and  a  magnificent 


FIELD    ICE.  373 

aurora  borealis  went  streaming  up  the  concave.  The 
phosphorescence  in  our  watery  path  was  unusually 
brilliant,  while  over  our  heads  flashed  and  dazzled  this 
vast  arch  of  scintillating  flame.  AVe  seemed  to  be  at 
the  same  time  in  a  realm  of  fire  and  in  a  realm  of  frost ; 
our  poor,  fleshly  natures  surrounded  by  contradictions, 
the  very  elements  themselves  bewildered  and  at  con 
flict.  And  there  they  were,  dashing  and  drifting  around 
us,  —  those  terrible  kings  of  the  Arctic,  —  in  their  moun 
tain-majesty,  while,  like  the  tribes  in  the  desert,  our 
mysterious  path  was  between  the  pillar  of  cloud,  and 
the  pillar  of  flame. 

At  nine,  from  the  sentinels  stationed  at  different 
points  of  observation,  a  cry  was  made  of  "  ice  ahead ! 
ice  starboard !  ice  leeward ! "  and  we  found  ourselves 
suddenly  imbedded  in  field  ice.  To  turn  was  impossible; 
so  a  path  was  laboriously  cut  with  the  paddles,  through 
which  our  steamer  was  propelled,  stern  foremost,  not 
without  peril,  changing  her  course  due  south,  in  the  teeth 
of  a  driving  blast. 

When  we  were  once  more  in  an  open  sea,  the  cap 
tain,  not  concealing  from  the  passengers  their  danger, 
advised  them  to  retire.  This  we  did  a  little  before  mid 
night,  if  not  to  sleep,  at  least  to  seek  that  rest  which 
might  aid  in  preparing  us  for  future  trials.  At  three 
we  were  aroused  by  harsh  grating,  and  occasional  con 
cussions,  which  caused  the  strong  timbers  of  the  ship  to 
tremble.  This  was  from  floating  masses  of  ice,  by  which, 
after  having  skirted  an  expanse  of  field  ice  fifty  miles 
in  extent,  we  were  surrounded.  It  varied  from  two  to 


374  WELL-MANAGED    STEAMER. 

five  feet  in  thickness,  rising  from  eight  inches  to  a  foot 
and  a  half  above  the  water,  and  interspersed  with  ice 
bergs,  some  of  them  comparatively  small,  and  others  of 
portentous  size  and  altitude.  By  the  Divine  blessing 
upon  nautical  skill  and  presence  of  mind,  we  were  a 
second  time  extricated  from  these  besieging  and  para 
lyzing  foes ;  but  our  path  still  lay  through  clusters  and 
hosts  of  icebergs,  which  covered  the  whole  sea  around 
us.  The  captain,  who  had  not  left  his  post  of  respon 
sibility  during  the  night,  reported  between  three  and 
four  hundred  distinct  ones,  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 
There  they  were,  of  all  forms  and  sizes,  careering 
in  every  direction.  Their  general  aspect  was  vitreous, 
or  of  a  silvery  whiteness,  except  when  a  sunbeam 
pierced  the  mist ;  then  they  loomed  up,  and  radiated 
with  every  hue  of  the  rainbow,  striking  out  turrets,  and 
columns,  and  arches,  like  solid  pearl  and  diamond,  till 
we  were  transfixed  with  wonder  at  the  terribly  beauti 
ful  architecture  of  the  northern  deep. 

The  engine  of  The  Great  Western  accommodated 
itself  every  moment,  like  a  living  and  intelligent  thing, 
to  the  commands  of  the  captain.  "  Half  a  stroke  ! " 
and  its  tumultuous  action  was  controlled ;  "  a  quarter 
of  a  stroke  ! "  and  its  breath  seemed  suspended ;  "  stand 
still ! "  and  our  huge  hulk  lay  motionless  upon  the 
waters,  till  two  or  three  of  the  icy  squadron  drifted  by 
us  ;  "  let  her  go  ! "  and  with  the  velocity  of  lightning 
we  darted  by  another  detachment  of  our  deadly  foes. 
It  was  then  that  we  were  made  sensible  of  the  advan 
tages  of  steam,  to  whose  agency,  at  our  embarkation, 


DELIVERANCE   FROM   DANGER.  375- 

many  of  us  had  committed  ourselves  with  extreme 
reluctance.  Yet  a  vessel  more  under  the  dominion  of 
the  winds,  and  beleaguered  as  we  were  amid  walls  of 
ice,  in  a  rough  sea,  must  inevitably  have  been  destroyed. 

By  nine  in  the  morning  of  April  19th,  it  pleased  God 
to  set  us  free  from  this  great  danger.  Afterwards, 
when  the  smallest  sails  appeared  on  the  distant  horizon, 
our  excellent  captain  caused  two  guns  to  be  fired,  to 
bespeak  attention,  and  then  by  flags  and  signals  warned 
them  to  avoid  the  fearful  region  from  which  we  had 
with  such  difficulty  escaped.  Two  tiny  barks  came 
struggling  through  the  billows  to  seek  a  more  intimate 
conversation  with  the  mighty  steam-ship,  who,  herself 
not  wholly  unscathed  from  the  recent  contest,  willingly 
dispensed  her  dear-bought  wisdom.  There  was  a  kind 
of  sublimity  in  this  gift  of  advice,  and  interchange  of 
sympathy  between  the  strong,  experienced  voyager,  and 
the  more  frail,  white-winged  wanderers  of  the  trackless 
waste  of  waters.  It  seemed  like  some  aged  Mentor, 
way-worn  in  life's  weary  pilgrimage,  counselling  him 
who  had  newly  girded  on  his  harness,  "  not  to  be  high- 
minded,  but  fear." 

As  we  drew  near  the  end  of  our  voyage,  we  felt  how 
community  in  danger  had  endeared  those  to  each  other, 
who,  during  the  sixteen  days  of  their  companionship 
upon  the  ocean,  had  been  united  by  the  courtesies  of 
kind  and  friendly  intercourse.  Collected  as  the  pas 
sengers  were  from  various  climes  and  nations,  and 
many  of  them  about  to  separate  without  hope  of  again 
meeting  in  this  life,  amid  the  joy  which  animated  those 


376  PARTING    OF    PASSENGERS. 

who  were  approaching  native  land  and  home,  the  truth 
of  the  great  moralist's  axiom  was  realized,  that  "  there 
is  always  some  degree  of  sadness  in  doing  any  thing  for 
the  last  time."  Hereafter,  with  the  memory  of  each 
other  will  doubtless  blend  the  terrific  sublimity  of  that 
Arctic  scene,  which  it  was  our  privilege  to  witness,  and 
the  thrill  of  heartfelt  gratitude  to  our  Almighty  Pre 
server. 


There  was  a  glorious  sunset  on  the  sea, 
Making  the  meeting-spot  of  sky  and  wave 
A  path  of  molten  gold.     Just  where  the  flush 
Was  brightest,  as  if  Heaven's  refulgent  gate 
One  moment  gave  its  portals  to  our  gaze, 
Just  at  that  point,  uprose  an  awful  form, 
Rugged  and  huge,  and  freezing  with  its  breath 
The  pulse  of  twilight.     Even  the  bravest  brow 
Was  blanched,  for  in  the  distance  others  came, 
Sheer  on  the  far  horizon's  burning  disk, 
Attendant  planets  on  that  mass  opaque. 

They  drifted  toward  us,  like  a  monster-host, 

From  Death's  dark  stream.     High  o'er  old  Ocean's 

breast, 

And  deep  below,  they  held  their  wondrous  way, 
Troubling  the  surge.     Winter  was  in  their  heart, 
And  stern  destruction  on  their  icy  crown. 
So,  in  their  fearful  company  the  night 
Closed  in  upon  us. 


ICEBERGS.  377 

The  astonished  ship, 

Watched  by  its  sleepless  master,  held  her  breath, 
As  they  approached,  and  found  her  furrowing  feet 
Sealed  to  the  curdling  brine. 

It  was  a  time 

Of  bitter  dread,  and  many  a  prayer  went  up 
To  Him,  who  moves  the  iceberg  and  the  storm 
To  go  their  way  and  spare  the  voyager. 

Slow  sped  the  night-watch,  and  when  morn  came  up 

Timid  and  pale,  there  stood  that  frowning  host, 

In  horrible  array,  all  multiplied, 

Until  the  deep  was  hoary.     Every  bay, 

And  frost-bound  inlet  of  the  Arctic  zone, 

Had  stirred  itself,  methought,  and  launched  amain 

Its  quota  of  thick  ribbed  ice,  to  swell 

The  bristling  squadron. 

Through  those  awful  ranks 
It  was  our  lot  to  pass.     Each  one  had  power 
To  crush  our  lone  bark  like  a  scallop-shell, 
And  in  their  stony  eyes  we  read  the  will 
To  do  such  deed.   When  through  the  curtaining  mist 
The  sun  with  transient  glimpse  that  host  surveyed, 
They  flashed  and  dazzled  with  a  thousand  hues, 
Like  cliffs  with  diamond  spear-points  serried  o'er, — 
Turrets  and  towers,  in  rainbow  banners  wrapped, 
Or  minarets  of  pearl,  with  crest  of  stars, 
So  terrible  in  beauty,  that  methought, 
He  stood  amazed  at  what  his  glance  had  done. 


378  GRATITUDE. 

I  said,  that  through  the  centre  of  this  host 
'T  was  ours  to  pass. 

Who  led  us  on  our  way  ? 

Who  through  that  path  of  horror  was  our  guide  ? 
Sparing  us  breath  to  tell  our  friends  at  home 
A  tale  of  those  destroyers,  who  so  oft 
With  one  strong  buffet  of  their  icy  hands 
Have  plunged  the  mightiest  ship  beneath  the  deep, 
Nor  left  a  lip  to  syllable  her  fate. 

Oh  Thou !  who  spread  us  not  on  Ocean's  floor 
A  sleeping-place  unconsecrate  with  prayer, 
But  brought  us  to  our  blessed  homes  again, 
And  to  the  burial-places  of  our  sires,  — 
Praise  to  Thy  holy  name ! 


SIGHT  OF  NATIVE  LAND. 


HILLS  !  —  my  hills  !  —  whose  outline  dear 
O'er  the  morning  mist  doth  peer, 
Blessed  hills  !  whose  wings  outspread, 
Seemed  to  follow  while  we  fled, 
"When  our  parting  glance  was  bent 
On  our  country's  battlement, 
As  with  white  sails  set  we  sped 
Far  away,  o'er  ocean  dread, 
How  our  glad  return  ye  greet 
With  a  smile  of  welcome  sweet ! 
He,  who  fashioned  earth  and  sea, 
Made  no  hills  more  fair  than  ye. 

Spires  !  that  break  the  rolling  tide 
Of  man's  worldliness  and  pride, 
Asking  with  your  Sabbath  chime 
For  his  consecrated  time, 
And  with  holy  chant  and  prayer 
Soothing  all  his  woe  and  care, 
Minster  and  cathedral  high 
Ne'er  have  shut  ye  from  mine  eye, 


380  SIGHT    OF   NATIVE    LAND. 

With  your  chuchyard's  grassy  sod, 
Where  my  musing  childhood  trod, 
With  your  music  on  the  glade 
Which  the  roving  Indian  staid,    0 
Who  of  yore,  at  twilight  dim, 
Startling  caught  the  white  man's  hymn, 
Hallowed  spires  !  that  fleck  the  vale, 
Heaven's  ambassadors,  all  hail ! 

Trees !  with  arch  of  verdure  bright, 
Gleaming  on  the  gazer's  sight, 
Have  ye  met  the  wintry  blast 
Bravely,  since  we  saw  ye  last  ? 
Was  your  spring-tide  wakening  sweet, 
With  the  grass-flower  at  your  feet  ? 
Nest  the  birds  with  breasts  of  gold 
Mid  your  branches,  as  of  old  ? 
Pours  the  thrush  his  carol  fair  ? 
Glides  the  crimson  oriole  there  ? 
Have  ye  o'er  their  callow  young 
Still  your  kind  protection  flung  ? 
Blessings  on  ye  !     Dews  and  rain 
Fill  with  sap  each  healthful  vein ; 
Blessings  on  ye  !     Wear  serene 
Nature's  coronal  of  green, 
And  no  woodman's  savage  blade 
Dare  your  birthright  to  invade. 

Roofs  !  that  in  the  vista  rise 
Rude  or  towering  toward  the  skies, 


SIGHT    OF    NATIVE    LAND.  381 

Not  by  wealth  or  taste  alone 

Are  your  inmate  treasures  shown  ; 

Though  perchance  your  firesides  show 

Signs  of  penury  and  woe, 

Yet  where'er  with  prayerful  sigh 

Sits  the  mother  patiently, 

Plying  still  her  needle's  care 

For  the  child  that  slumbers  there, 

"Whereso'er  in  cottage  low 

Rocks  the  cradle  to  and  fro, 

There  the  eye  of  God  doth  turn, 

There  the  lamp  of  soul  doth  burn  : 

Roofs !  that  nurse  this  deathless  light, 

Precious  are  ye  in  His  sight. 

Throngs  !  I  see  ye  on  the  strand, 
As  the  steamer  nears  the  land, 
Some  might  fortune's  favorites  seem, 
Borne  on  pride  or  pleasure's  stream ; 
Others,  marked  by  weary  care, 
Labor's  rugged  livery  wear ; 
Ye,  who  humbly  dig  the  soil, 
Brow  and  hand  embrowned  with  toil, 
If  ye  eat  my  country's  bread, 
If  to  work  her  weal  ye  tread, 
Faithful  even  in  lowliest  sphere, 
Friends  ye  are,  like  kindred  dear. 

Since  I  last  these  scenes  surveyed, 
Who  have  in  the  tomb  been  laid  ? 


382  SIGHT    OP   NATIVE    LAND. 

Who  the  bitter  tear  have  shed 
O'er  the  bosom  of  the  dead  ? 
Who  beneath  the  sable  pall 
Have  the  poet's  lyre  let  fall  ? 
Who,  that  won  a  nation's  trust, 
Sleep  in  silence  and  in  dust  ? 
While  with  faint  and  trembling  fires, 
Fearfully  my  heart  inquires, 
Hears  it  not  an  answer  swell, 
"  God  hath  ordered,  —  all  is  well." 

Home  !  — my  home !  — though  earth  and 
Veil  thee  from  my  longing  eye, 
Still  though  envious  leagues  remain 
Ere  thy  vine-clad  porch  I  gain, 
Lightest  leaf  that  wooed  the  gale, 
Frailest  plant  with  petals  pale, 
That  beside  thy  threshold  grew, 
Ne'er  have  faded  from  my  view  ; 
On  my  cheek,  mid  cloud  and  storm, 
Still  thy  parting  kiss  was  warm  ; 
O'er  my  dreams  thine  accents  free 
Stole  like  angel  melody  ; 
Little  footsteps,  light  as  wings, 
Hands  that  swept  the  tuneful  strings, 
Lips  that  touched  with  filial  flame, 
Syllabled  a  mother's  name, 
Watch  and  ward  for  thee  have  kept 
Marshalled  round  me  while  I  slept ; 
And  when  loftier  mansions  prest 
Countless  pleasures  on  their  guest, 


SIGHT    OP   NATIVE    LA.XD.  383 

Held  thce  in  thine  armor  bright, 
Nearest  to  me  day  and  night. 
Home  !  by  absence  made  more  dear, 
Heaven  be  praised  that  thou  art  near ; 
Heaven  be  praised,  that  o'er  the  sea 
Once  more  I  return  to  thee. 

What  has  been  the  traveller's  gain  ? 
Sight  of  foreign  land  and  main  ? 
Sight  of  visioned  forms  that  sweep 
O'er  the  castle's  ruined  steep  ? 
Sight  of  haunts  to  history  dear  ? 
Sight  of  palace,  king,  or  peer  ? 
No !  —  the  joy  that  lights  the  eye, 
When  the  native  shore  draws  nigh, 
In  the  heart  a  deeper  sense 
Of  its  humbling  impotence, 
On  the  lip  a  grateful  strain,  — 
This  hath  been  the  traveller's  gain. 


"  Travelling,"  said  Lord  Bacon,  "  is  to  the  younger 
sort  a  part  of  education."  Neither  are  its  advantages 
confined  to  the  season  of  youth.  They  may  act  strongly 
upon  the  ripened  character,  in  higher  forms  than 
through  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  works  of  art,  or 
the  excitement  of  sublime  scenery,  or  the  deepened 
knowledge  of  the  topography  of  this  little  planet,  or 
the  varied  languages  and  customs  of  those  who  inhabit 
it.  They  may  be  made  to  bear  upon  the  moral  senti 
ments  and  innate  charities,  that  "  more  excellent  kind 


384  BENEFITS    OF    TKAVELLING. 

of  knowledge,"  in  which  the  most  advanced  pupil  may 
always  find  something  to  learn,  though  the  snows  of 
threescore  years  and  ten  have  gathered  upon  his 
temples. 

Among  the  satisfactions  of  travelling,  which  are  not 
limited  to  any  particular  period  of  life,  are  the  emo 
tions  with  which  we  traverse  the  spots  which  antiquity 
has  hallowed.  The  pyramid,  in  its  sandy  vale ;  the 
column  of  Passtum,  with  the  moonbeam  upon  its 
broken  capital ;  the  Parthenon,  the  Acropolis,  the  Col 
iseum,  the  Tiber  flowing  so  quietly,  while  the  decrepit 
mistress  of  the  world  slumbers  amid  the  relics  of 
departed  greatness,  touch  new  sources  of  feeling  and 
of  contemplation.  This  pleasure  is  doubtless  more 
acute  in  the  bosoms  of  those  who  inhabit  a  land  where 
such  vestiges  are  unknown,  whose  history  points  not 
beyond  the  roving  Indian  with  his  arrow,  or  the  sav 
age  court  of  Powhatan,  or  the  storm-driven  sails  of  The 
May  Flower.  To  us  there  is  inexpressible  interest  in 
the  monuments  of  the  Mother  Land,  a  portion  of  whose 
fame  we  are  pleased  to  claim  as  our  own  birthright. 
We  are  never  weary  of  pursuing  the  mouldering  traces 
of  the  wall  or  aqueduct  of  the  Romans,  and  collecting 
the  fragments  of  their  hypocausts  and  altars.  We  love 
to  muse  amid  the  low-browed  arches  and  ruinous  clois 
ters  of  the  Saxons,  the  ivy-crowned  turrets  of  the  Nor 
mans,  the  cathedrals  and  baronial  halls,  which,  surviv 
ing  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  the  shocks  of  revolution, 
teem  with  the  traditions  of  a  buried  race. 

Another  unutterable  gratification  to  the  enthusiastic 


INTERCOURSE    WITH    THE    ILLUSTRIOUS.        385 

traveller,  is  the  sight  of  the  living,  who  by  their  deeds 
or  writings  have  made  mankind  wiser  and  happier. 
\Ve  seek  this  privilege  with  the  greater  zeal,  from  the 
consciousness  that  it  must  be  fleeting,  and  the  appre 
hension  that  it  may  not  be  accorded  to  us  again. 
Gray  hairs  are  seen  sprinkling  the  heads  of  the  masters 
of  the  lyre,  and  we  feel  that  another  year  might  have 
been  too  late  to  clasp  their  hand,  or  catch  the  music  of 
their  voice.  The  statesman,  the  hero,  the  philanthro 
pist,  bend  beneath  the  weight  of  years,  and  we  thank 
God  that  we  came  before  the  cold  marble  should  have 
told  us  where  they  slumbered.  We  find  clustering 
roses  blooming  in  the  garden  of  the  man  of  genius,  who 
so  oft  led  us  captive,  while  time  passed  unheeded.  But 
where  is  he  ?  Where  ?  No  reply,  save  a  sighing  sound 
through  the  trees  that  he  planted,  and  we  drop  the  tear 
of  the  mourner  in  his  deserted  halls. 

Among  the  advantages  of  travelling,  it  is  common  to 
allow  a  high  place  to  the  knowledge  of  human  nature. 
A  still  higher  acquisition  might  be  mentioned,  the 
knowledge  of  ourselves.  By  remaining  always  at 
home,  we  are  involuntarily  led  to  magnify  our  own 
importance.  Our  daily  movements  may  be  points  of 
observation  to  the  villagers  who  surround  us ;  our 
footsteps  be  listened  for  by  the  ear  of  love ;  the  casual 
paleness  of  our  cheek  be  painfully  noted  at  the  hearth 
stone.  Marked  attentions  and  fond  observances  create 
a  habitude  of  expecting  them,  which  may  become  mor 
bid  ;  perhaps  a  belief  that  they  are  fully  deserved,  and 
of  course  a  dissatisfaction  when  they  are  withheld. 
25 


386  SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 

But  you,  who  are  thus  unconsciously  garnering  your 
self  up  in  exclusiveness  and  self-esteem,  go  pitch  your 
tent  among  a  people  of  strange  language,  walk  solitary 
along  their  crowded  streets,  be  sad,  be  sorrowful,  be 
sick,  where  "  no  man  careth  for  your  soul."  Go  forth 
among  the  millions,  and  weigh  yourself,  and  carry  the 
humbling  result  onward  with  you  through  life,  atom  as 
you  are,  in  the  mighty  creation  of  God. 

This  increase  of  self-knowledge  often  brings  an  en 
largement  of  mind,  and  deepening  of  charity.  Dwell 
ing  long  in  one  nook,  viewing  the  same  classes  of  ob 
jects  through  the  same  narrow  mediums,  trifles  assume 
undue  magnitude,  prejudices  fix,  dislikes  become  per 
manent,  sickly  imaginings  take  unto  themselves  a  body, 
trains  of  morbid  thought  cut  their  way  deep  into  the 
heart,  and  the  mental  tendencies  take  a  coloring  like 
monomania.  A  natural  antidote  for  these  evils  is,  to 
try  a  broader  horizon,  and  become  an  interested  ob 
server  of  masses  of  mankind,  as  modified  by  clime,  cir 
cumstance,  and  varieties  of  culture.  Perceiving  all  to 
be  partakers  of  a  common  nature,  whose  springs  are 
touched  like  our  own,  by  joy  or  sorrow,  by  suffering, 
decay,  and  death,  we  enter  into  more  affectionate  broth 
erhood  with  the  great  family  of  man,  and  live  more 
"  tremblingly  along  the  line  of  human  sympathies." 
"We  discover  goodness  where  we  had  least  expected  it ; 
disinterested  kindness  in  those  who  were  denounced  as 
heartless  votaries  of  fashion;  warm  attachment  and 
lasting  gratitude  among  menials ;  and  learn,  with  the 
heaven-instructed  apostle,  not  to  call  any  one  "com- 


SYMPATHY.  387 

mon  or  unclean."  Ere  we  arc  aware,  some  polemic  or 
militant  feature,  which,  as  an  excrescence,  had  de 
formed  our  faith,  exfoliates,  and  we  find  it  possible  to 
love  those  of  differing  creeds,  and  to  respect  every 
form  in  which  the  Supreme  Being  is  worshipped  with 
sincerity. 

Travelling  teaches  the  value  of  sympathy.  The 
smile  of  welcome,  the  caress  of  affection,  are  never 
prized  according  to  their  worth,  until  we  feel  the  need 
of  them  in  a  foreign  land.  Suffering,  and  the  depend 
ence  of  sickness,  among  those  who,  without  any  tie  of 
natural  or  national  affinity,  serve  you  but  for  money, 
are  lessons  never  to  be  forgotten.  If  from  the  coldly 
rendered  service,  meted  out  by  the  expectation  of  re 
ward,  you  were  transferred  to  the  care  of  those  who, 
though  born  under  a  foreign  sky,  had  been  taught  by 
the  spirit  of  a  Christian's  faith  to  "  be  pitiful,  be  cour 
teous,"  then  in  those  periods  of  convalescence,  when  the 
events  of  a  whole  life  sweep  in  vision  through  the  soul, 
did  you  not  resolve,  if  the  Merciful  Healer  restored 
you  to  your  own  home,  to  obey  more  faithfully  his 
precepts,  to  u  use  hospitality  without  grudging,"  and  to 
"love  the  stranger,"  since  you  had  thus  learned  to 
know  the  heart  and  the  solace  of  a  stranger? 

Travelling  should  incite  to  a  warmer  and  more  en 
during  patriotism.  The  depth  of  the  "  amor  patrias "  is 
never  fully  disclosed,  till  we  see  the  misty  line  of  our 
native  hills  recede,  or,  after  long  absence,  thrill  with 
ecstasy,  as  they  again  gleam  upon  the  horizon,  like  the 
wings  of  a  guardian  angel.  Then,  when  every  remem- 


388  LOVE    OF    COUNTRY   AND     OF    HOME. 

bered  cottage  seems  to  stretch  towards  us  a  greeting 
hand,  all  the  pleasures  we  have  tasted,  all  the  knowl 
edge  we  have  acquired  during  our  wanderings,  we  long 
to  pour  out  at  the  feet  of  our  own  blessed  land.  Every 
usage  of  order  and  beauty,  which  distinguish  other 
regions,  we  desire  to  transplant  to  her  forests,  or  to  see 
blossoming  around  her  firesides.  We  feel  willing  to 
have  borne  an  exile's  pain,  if  we  may  bring  back,  as  a 
proof  of  our  loyalty,  one  germ  of  improvement  for  her 
children,  one  leaf  of  olive  for  the  garland  that  encircles 
her  brow. 

Travelling  unfolds  to  us  the  love  of  home,  and  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  domestic  charities.  While  a 
sojourner  in  the  tents  of  strangers,  perhaps  while  gazing 
on  the  glowing  canvas  of  some  ancient  master,  the  clus 
tered  columns  of  some  gorgeous  temple,  how  often  has 
the  green  vine,  that  waved  over  our  own  door,  inter 
posed  itself,  or  the  chirping  of  the  callow  nest  among 
its  branches  overpowered  for  a  time  the  fullest  burst  of 
foreign  minstrelsy.  As  these  modes  of  feeling  gain 
ascendency,  we  pursue  our  researches  more  for  the 
benefit  of  others  than  our  own ;  and  selfishness  yields 
to  the  exercise  of  the  disinterested  affections.  We  sus 
tain  fatigue  with  the  spirit  of  a  martyr,  we  adventure 
ourselves  upon  the  mouldering  tower,  we  thread  the 
mazes  of  the  labyrinth,  we  explore  the  mine,  we 
ascend  the  cloud-crested  mountain,  not  so  much  for 
personal  enjoyment,  as  that  we  may  be  enabled  to 
enliven  our  own  fireside,  to  gratify  the  friend,  or  to 
hold  spell-bound  the  wondering  and  delighted  child. 


PIETY.  389 

Travelling  ought  to  advance  the  growth  of  piety. 
Especially  do  those,  who,  in  visiting  foreign  regions, 
leave  behind  the  objects  of  their  warmest  attachment, 
find  the  separation  a  deep  and  perpetual  discipline. 
Amid  the  outward  semblance  of  joy,  it  acts  secretly  as 
a  balance-check  to  all  exultation  of  vanity.  There 
may  be  gayety  through  the  day,  but  at  night-fall 
comes  the  homesickness.  Who  can  say,  amid  his  most 
earnest  and  fortunate  pursuits,  whether  the  hue  of  the 
tomb  may  not  be  spread  over  some  face  dearer  than 
life  itself.  Then  comes  an  intensity  of  prayer  before 
unknown.  Risks,  perils,  uncertainty  of  their  fate,  from 
whom  so  many  leagues  of  fathomless  ocean  divide  from 
view,  drive  to  a  stronger  faith,  a  deeper  humility,  a 
more  self-abandoning  dependence  on  the  Rock  of  Ages. 

Thus,  amid  the  gains  of  the  reflecting  traveller,  may 
be  numbered  that  which  is  above  all  price>a  more  ad 
hesive  and  tranquil  trust  in  the  "  God  of  our  salvation, 
who  is  the  confidence  of  all  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and 
of  those  who  are  afar  off  upon  the  sea." 


EETROSPECTION. 


THE  pleasure  derived  from  recurring  to  the  scenes 
slightly  sketched  in  this  volume,  is  not  impaired  by  the 
interval  that  has  elapsed  since  they  were  beheld.  Still 
their  pictures  hang  unfaded  in  Memory's  halls,  and 
brighten  many  a  musing  hour.  Some  of  their  imagery 
has,  indeed,  assumed  a  different  aspect,  through  the 
progress  of  man,  and  the  providence  of  God. 

One  of  th*e  most  striking  changes  has  been  the  paci 
fication  of  two  great  realms,  for  ages  at  enmity.  Of 
this  event,  History  gave  no  prediction,  save  a  transient 
gleam  at  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  or  when  their 
mailed  hands  grasped  each  other  in  the  Crusades. 
Now,  they  seem  wisely  to  have  determined  no  longer  to 
verify  the  assertion  of  one  of  their  own  poets,  that 

"  Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  tach  other." 

May  the  united  strength  of  these  reconciled  neigh 
bors  again  close  the  temple  of  Janus,  and  restore  to 
Europe  the  olive  under  which,  for  nearly  forty  years, 
she  had  found  rest. 


FRANCE    AND    ENGLAND.  391 

France,  as  is  her  wont,  has  exhibited  more  varia 
tions  than  her  compeer.  Louis  Philippe,  whom  I  saw 
in  the  plenitude  of  power,  abdicated  his  throne  in  the 
course  of  seven  years,  and  retiring  with  his  family  to 
England,  passed  forth  from  the  shades  of  Claremont, 
on  the  morning  of  September  2d,  1850,  to  the  tomb ; 
having  been  preceded  to  the  Spirit  Land  by  his  eldest 
son,  the  hope  of  his  house  and  heart,  and  by  the  sister 
with  whom  his  affections  were  so  long  faithfully  gar 
nered.  The  empire  seems  both  to  prosper  and  rejoice 
under  the  strong  sway  of  the  third  Napoleon,  whose 
early  discipline  of  adverse  fortune  has  matured  a  sin 
gular  self-command,  and  facility  for  the  hazardous 
science  of  government. 

Victoria  still  sits  securely  upon  the  throne  of  her 
ancestors,  surrounded  by  more  of  domestic  happiness 
than  often  appertains  to  so  exalted  a  station.  She 
folded  her  first  nursling  to  her  bosom  but  a  few  months 
after  my  arrival  in  England.  Now,  she  is  encircled  by 
a  group  of  eight  healthful  children,  —  four  daughters 
and  four  sons,  —  between  the  oldest  and  the  youngest 
of  whom  less  than  twelve  and  a  half  years  intervene  ; 
though  with  a  precocity  not  unparalleled  in  courts,  the 
Princess  Royal  is  already  an  object  of  attraction  to  a 
foreign  suitor. 

Among  those  who  cheered  my  ^sit  to  the  pleasant 
lands  beyond  the  sea,  either  by  courtesies  to  a  stranger, 
or  the  welcome  of  a  friend,  it  would  seem  that  the  list 
of  the  departed  is  large,  for  an  interval  of  twice  seven 
years.  Is  it  no  so  ? 

From  their  high  position  have  been  swept  the  Duke 


392  DEPARTED    FRIENDS. 

of  Cambridge,  the  latest  survivor  of  the  children  of 
George  the  Third  ;  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  the  pride 
of  the  English  people ;  Count  Roy,  of  the  ancient  re 
gime  of  France ;  the  aged  Lady  Charleville ;  and  the 
amiable  Countess  of  Blessington,  who  delighted  to  fos 
ter  the  talents  of  others,  as  well  as  to  exercise  her  own. 
Of  the  rulers  of  the  lyre,  have  fallen,  Wordsworth  and 
Southey,  Campbell  and  Montgomery,  Talfourd  and 
Joanna  Baillie.  Of  other  lights  in  the  firmament  of 
literature,  Coleridge  and  Professor  Wilson,  Dr.  Chal 
mers,  Dr.  Arnold,  and  the  Rev.  Sydney  Smith ; 
Lockhart,  and  the  genial  Allan  Cunningham ;  John 
Foster,  the  forcible  essayist,  and  his  placid  friend,  John 
Shephard,  author  of  the  "  Autumn  Dream ; "  Maria 
Edgeworth,  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  and  Jane  Porter ; 
Mrs.  Opie  and  Mrs.  Southey,  Mrs.  Shelley  and  Mrs. 
Hoffland.  Of  philosophers,  the  white-haired  Arago; 
of  philanthropists,  the  serene  Joseph  John  Gurney,  and 
his  blessed  sister,  Mrs.  Fry,  who  has  exchanged  the 
sighing  of  the  prisoner  for  the  hymn  of  angels. 

Looking  still  more  closely  over  the  groups  that  re 
membrance  has  embalmed,  I  miss  the  classic  features  of 
Baron  Gurney,  one  of  the  twelve  judges  of  England ; 
the  benevolent  countenance  of  his  brother,  William  B. 
Gurney,  long  a  reporter  to  Parliament,  an  earnest 
Christian  and  my^true  friend ;  the  pale,  sublimated 
features  of  the  Rev.  T.  Hankinson,  so  in  harmony  with 
his  saintly  sermons  and  his  sacred  lyre  ;  and  of  those 
who  exercised  sweet,  sisterly  influences  over  the  sons 
of  song,  Dorothy  Wordsworth  and  Mary  Lamb. 


RETROSPECTION.  393 

Does  any  one  ask  why  the  dead,  for  whom  we 
mourn,  are  thus  numbered  among  "  Pleasant  Memo 
ries  ? "  Why  should  they  not  be  ?  Bequeathing 
to  us  the  melodies  of  genius,  should  they  not  hence 
forth  be  among  us  as  a  cherished  harp  ?  Having 
enrrched  earth  with  benefactions,  should  not  their 
goodness  remain  as  a  perpetual  presence? 

Yes.  We  would  speak  of  them  for  our  own  com 
fort,  and  as  an  honor  to  our  common  nature,  until  we 
reach  that  better  land,  where  the  tree  of  life  never 
casts  its  leaf,  and  there  is  no  pause  in  the  realm  of 


Change  sweeps  o'er  all.     The  ancient  columns  quiver  ; 

Through  the  rent  chasm  the  exulting  whirlpool  flows  ; 
The  rifted  rocks,  man's  mimic  thunders  shiver, 

And  o'er  the  desert  steals  the  wondering  rose. 

The  buried  seed  to  perfect  blossom  springeth  ; 

From  its  damp  bed  the  lily  of  the  lake  ; 
The  acorn  o'er  the  land  broad  shadow  flingeth, 

And  song  and  wing  the  solemn  groves  awake. 

Where  erst  the  pannier'd  mule  went  slowly  creeping, 
The  plodding  wheel  its  tardy  message  bore, 

The  flame-fed  steeds  o'er  hill  and  dirte  are  sweeping, 
And  thought  electric  darts  from  shore  to  shore. 

His  last,  sweet  lay,  the  wan  musician  drinketh ; 
The  pencil  fades,  —  the  artist's  eye  grows  dim  ; 


394  CHANGE. 

The  mighty  statesman  from  the  senate  sinketh, 
And  eloquence  in  sackcloth  mourns  for  him. 

The  lofty  Czar  who  held  his  millions  quaking, 
Who  woke  the  nations  with  a  warrior-tread, 

On  his  camp-bed  a  pulseless  sleep  is  taking, 
Pale  as  the  serf  that  in  his  battles  bled. 


Change  sweeps  o'er  all.  In  home's  sweet  orb  it  worketh ; 

Clouds,  silver-lined,  grow  dark  with  gushing  rain  ; 
But,  prism'd  on  tears,  the  bow  of  promise  lurketh, 

The  Sun  breaks  forth,  and  all  is  bright  again. 

Up  comes  the  cradling  to  his  father's  stature; 

Down  o'er  his  staff  the  man  of  prowess  bends  ; 
Unpitying  Winter  strips  the  pomp  from  nature, 

And  snows  o'er  beauty's  lustrous  locks  descend. 

To  her  first  babe  the  joyous  mother  clingeth ; 

Another  weepeth  in  her  rifled  nest, 
And  to  the  grave's  cold  casket,  grudging,  bringeth 

The  little  diamond  from  her  yearning  breast. 

But  the  redeemed  soul  hath  no  declension; 

Tired  sense  may  fail,  —  the  eye  forget  its  fire  ; 
The  nerve  be  severed  in  its  earthly  tension, 

The  unchain'd  spirit  soareth  toward  its  Sire  ; 


FAREWELL.  395 

Back  to  the  Giver  of  its  life  it  tendeth, 

Up  to  His  glorious  throne  where  angels  dwell : 

Oh,  unknown  friend  !  that  o'er  this  volume  bendeth, 
That  Home  of  rest  be  thine.     A  sweet  farewell ! 


THE     END. 


PUBLISHED    BY 

JAMES   MUNROE  &   COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  CAMBRIDGE, 
SCENES    IN    MY    NATIVE    LAND.      By    Mrs. 

L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.     TIJUO  steel  plates.     i6mo.     pp.  325. 
$1.25- 

"  We  welcome  this  volume  as  we  do  every  thing  with 
which  the  gifted  author  favors  the  public.  It  will  be  received 
as  a  pleasant  contribution  to  the  new  works  of  the  season,  as 
a  fine  description  of  scenes  in  which  we  have  a  deep  interest, 
and  as  a  fine  volume  for  the  gift  season  of  New  Years.  — 
Journal. 

"  Mrs.  Sigourney's  character  as  a  writer  needs  no  commen 
dation,  for  she  is  recognized  as  one  of  the  best  among  those 
who  grace  the  literature  of  our  country,  and  her  poetic  effu 
sions  especially  have  in  many  instances  become  as  familiar  as 
household  words/  "  —  Philadelphia  U.  S.  Gazette. 

"  It  is  composed  in  prose  and  verse  —  delightfully  inter 
mingled —  and  it  pictures  to  our  view  some  of  the  revolution 
ary  and  other  historical  spots  of  our  native  land,  that  will 
never  grow  old  in  the  eyes  of  true-hearted  Americans."  — 
Hartford  Courant. 

"  Like  a  true  and  good  woman,  she  has  selected  the  flowers 
that  grew  along  her  path  of  travel,  and  left  the  weeds  to  be 
garnered  by  those,  whose  nature  it  is  to  press  some  bitter  drop 
from  every  object  that  presents  itself  in  a  pursuit  after  knowl 
edge  or  pleasure."  —  Ne-iu  World. 


PLEASANT   MEMORIES  OF  PLEASANT   LANDS. 

By  Mrs.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY.  Illustrated  by  /-TUO  engrav 
ings  on  steel.  Nefw  Edition,  ivith  additions.  i6mo. 
pp.  408. 

"  Out  of  her  Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands,  Mrs. 
Sigourney  has  made  quite  a  pleasant  book.  She  pours  out 
poetry  with  apparently  the  same  facility  as  prose.  But  whether 
she  employs  blank  verse,  rhyme,  or  simple  prose,  she  gives 
utterance  to  those  kindly  feelings  and  that  pure  sentiment  that 
find  a  ready  echo  in  the  bosoms  of  all."  — Christian  Exam 
iner. 

"  The  beautiful  gleanings  of  such  a  mind  as  Mrs.  Sigour 
ney,  and  the  more  beautiful  arrangements  in  such  a  volume, 
are  priceless.  '  Carpere  et  collegere  '  belongs  to  few."  — 
United  States  Gazette. 

"  We  have  read  this  volume  with  interest,  and  although  the 
author  has  not  indeed  (as  she  forewarns  us)  led  us  into  new 
paths  in  the  old  world,  yet  she  has  contrived,  by  her  very 
agreeable  variety  of  prose  and  verse  scattered  along  the  way, 
to  invest  former  acquaintances  with  much  that  is  new  and 
entertaining.  She  has  apostrophized,  in  different  metres,  many 
of  the  places  she  has  visited,  and  her  poetry,  as  is  with  her 
invariably  the  case,  is  instructive  and  moral."  —  Boston  Re- 
co  rder. 

"  Poetry  and  prose  interspersed,  and  both  in  Mrs.  Sigour- 
ney's  most  felicitous  manner,  make  the  book  doubly  attrac 
tive."  —  Knickerbocker. 

"  This  little  volume  is  marked  by  the  same  characteristics 
that  distinguish  the  fair  author's  preceding  productions  —  an 
easy,  graceful,  and  often  felicitous  flow  of  versification  —  a 
pure  or  elevated  strain  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  an  entire 
freedom  from  affectation  which  forms  the  besetting  sin  of  the 
rising  generation  of  Poets."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


"  This  is  the  title  of  a  beautiful  volume  from  the  pen  of  the 
gifted  Mrs.  Sigourney,  a  lady  whose  writings  are  familiar  to 
our  readers,  and  who  has  done  much  to  elevate  the  character 
of  American  literature." —  Boston  Mercantile  Journal. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  express  the  pleasure  with 
which  I  first  looked  at,  and  then  immediately  went  through, 
the  beautiful  duodecimo  volume  of  Mrs.  Sigourney,  —  her 
4  Pleasant  Memories  of  Pleasant  Lands.'  The  typographical 
execution  is  matter  of  pride  ;  both  prose  and  verse  resemble 
honey  of  roses,  —  delicacy,  sweetness  ;  the  kindest  extract  of 
the  best  of  objects  and  purest  of  sentiments." — Philadelphia 
National  Gazette. 

"  It  has  all  the  charms  which  characterize  the  works  of 
William  Howitt,  besides  its  poetical  illustrations  of  some  of 
the  most  romantic  spots  known  over  the  wide  earth."  —  Chris 
tian  Register. 

"  It  forms  a  beautiful  and  attractive  volume  of  nearly  400 
pages." —  Providence  American. 

"  A  pleasant  book  by  that  pleasant  woman  —  that  New 
England  favorite,  Mrs.  Sigourney.  In  its  outward  parapher 
nalia  the  work  is  praiseworthy,  and  its  inward  appearance  con 
forms  to  this  remark."  —  Boston  Evening  Transcript. 

"  These  memories  of  the  lands  visited  by  the  author  are 
truly  pleasant.  She  scarcely  passes  a  spot  of  any  interest  in 
France  or  England,  without  bestowing  on  it  a  few  verses 
from  her  fluent  pen.  These  are  interspersed  with  passages  of 
agreeable  description  and  narrative  in  prose."  —  Ne!w  York 
Evening  Post. 

"  There  is  more  originality  in  her  writings,  however,  than 
in  those  of  any  other  author  of  the  same  class,  and  to  the  same 
extent,  with  which  we  are  acquainted."  —  Boston  Notion. 

"  They  are  almost  always  of  an  interesting,  often  of  a 
piquant  kind  ;  and  the  mode  of  treating  them  evinces  a  strong 


sensibility  in  the  author  to  the  true  and  beautiful  in  art  and  in 
life."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  Of  Mrs.  Sigourney's  merits  as  a  poet,  and  also  as  a  prose 
writer,  we  have  not  now  to  speak  for  the  first  time.  She  is, 
if  we  may  so  say,  one  of  the  established  reputations  of  the 
country,  and  her  name  to  a  work  as  author  is  a  sure  guarantee 
to  its  sale.  With  many  thanks  to  its  accomplished  author, 
who  by  her  simple,  chaste,  and  devout  spirit,  can  exert  none 
but  a  pure  and  purifying  influence  on  the  sons  and  daughters 
of  her  native  land."  —  Democratic  Reevie;vu. 


"  One  of  the  most  recent  critical  notices  of  Mrs.  Sigour 
ney's  poetry  which  we  have  seen  was  written  for  the  Demo 
cratic  Review  by  the  Hon.  Alexander  H.  Everett,  and  we 
give  his  estimate  of  her  powers,  rather  than  attempt  an  ex 
pression  of  our  own.  '  Her  compositions,'  says  this  able  and 
eminent  critic,  '  being  exclusively  to  the  class  of  short  poems, 
for  the  Pocahontas,  which  is  the  largest  of  them,  does  not,  as 
we  have  said,  exceed  thirty  or  forty  pages.  They  commonly 
express,  with  great  purity,  and  evident  sincerity,  the  tender 
affections  which  are  so  natural  to  the  female  heart,  and  the 
lofty  aspirations  after  a  higher  and  better  state  of  being,  which 
constitute  the  truly  ennobling  and  elevating  principle  in  art, 
as  well  as  in  nature.  —  Love  and  religion  are  the  unvarying 
elements  of  her  song.  This  is  saying,  in  other  words,  that 
the  substance  of  her  poetry  is  of  the  highest  order.  If  her 
powers  of  expression  were  equal  to  the  purity  and  elevation 
of  her  habits  of  thought  and  feeling,  she  would  be  a  female 
Milton,  or  a  Christian  Pindar.'  "  —  Graham's  Magazine. 


Ul 


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